















<}5°^ 






<5^. *^ O H O 










HOURS OF MUSING 



BEIA'G A 



COLLECTION OF POEMS, 



BY 



cVsf'pERCiyAL, 



"It was, indeed, a wondrous sort of bli.s?, 

The lonely bard enjoyed, when forlli he walked, 

I'npurpofcd, 

Nor meant to think; but ran; mi^an time, through vast 

Of viiionary things." Tollok: 



UTICA: 

BEN??ETTj 15ACKU3, io' IIAWLEV, FiiANKLIX SQ,VAliB, 

1S41. 






^'^ 






TO 



SIMEON NORTH, A. M., 

PRESIDENT OF 

this little volume 

is inscribed, 

with every sentiment of 
regard and respect, 

by his 

GEATEFUL AND OBLIGED PUPIL, 

THE AUTHOR. 
Hamilton College, June. 184L 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



An spology for publishing a book has long ago become so 
stale a thing, that little or no attention is paid to it. But, 
nevertheless, the author of this little work, begs to be heard 
^'only this once,^' while he says, that the publication of these 
poems was not so much in accordance with his own inclina- 
tion, as with the stern demands of necessity. Having entered 
college with means inadequate to his support, he found that, 
unless some plan could be devised for his assistance, he would 
be under the necessity of abandoning his studies: and it was 
not without the advice of those whose capability of advising 
he can not doubt, that he took the present step. The follo.v. 
ing pieces have been thus brought to light, with the hope that 
a kind and indulgent public will see in them some things, 
at least, commendable, and, by giving them a liberal patron- 
age, will afford him some assistance in the prosecution of his 
studies, preparatory to a station of importance and usefulness 
in active life. The volume is now before the world, with 
whatever of imperfection it may possess ; and, with Byron* 
the author must say, "would it were v/orthier" — but " what 
is writ is writ ;" and if the result should show tliat it has failed 
both to please the public and profit the author, he must submit 
it to the fiat of a jast oblivion. 



CONTENTS. 



Hours of Musing, . . . ► 

The Swallow's Farewell, .... 

Burial of the Revolutionary Soldier, . 
Farewell to Summer, .... 

'Tis sweet to behold, &c. 

Hope and Memory, ..... 

Sunset, ...... 

All things arc fleeting, .... 

Is it a crime to love ? . ^ . .. 
I knew 'twas Love, ..... 

The Winter is gone and the Spring is come, 
The Conneeticut rolled his silver tide, 
Give me thy heart, .... 

A Tale, 

rOEMS OF AN EARLY DATK. 

Drcamg, ..... 

The address of the Grape-gathere?, . 
The School-boy's complaint, 
A Afwscular affray, . . 

America, ..... 

Enoch, ...... 

The newly-wedded, 
When first upon that wedding night, 
Dear girl, if I am sometimes gay, 
Disappointed love, .... 

Elegy on an Indian burying-ground. 
To the Cricket, .... 

POEMS OF A LATER PERIOD. 

The sleeping Phenomenon, . , ^ . . 
Vie ne'er shall regret the day, .... 
Once fame could allure me, . , . . 

Farewell I ....... 



Pags . 
9 

15 
13 
20 
21 
22 
23 
S-4 
27 
28 
31 
32 
34 
35 



40 
47 
49 
51 
53 
58 
60 
60 
63 
66 
6G 

6a 

63 

71 
73 
74. 



A sweet deception, 

Acrostic, .... 

A lament for Autumn, 

That Balsam Tree, . 

Thinking of thee, 

Ode to John G. Whittier, 

Stonn at Natchez, 

Weep for the slave, . 

To Iliram Wilson, 

To the Moon in Eclipse, . 

Lines to a small Cascade, 

The two Sisters, 

The Spirit and the Bride say, come. 

The Conqueror's wreath, 

Oh I how I love these old romantic wood?, 

'Tis Sabbath evening, and the radiant sun, 

Why, Poverty, thou withered hag, ah I why, 

All nature sleeps; 'tis midnight's silent hour. 

Young bard, that ill-presaging muse of thine, 

Religion, now put on thy weeds of mourning. 

The Maiden from afar, .... 

To D. H. F., 

Come o'er the lea, my love, with me, . 



• • 



Pac?,^ 
. 76 

77 
. 77 

79 
. 80 

82 
. 84 

85 
. 87 

89 
. 90 

96 
. 97 

98 
. 99 
100 
. 100 
101 
. 102 
103 
. 103 
104 
. 106 



HOURS OF MUSING 



*^ WHILE I WAS MUSING, THE FIRE BURNED." 



He who his fondest bliss hath found, 
In Pleasure's gay, fantastic round, 
Who lives when only he enjoys 
The city's brilliancy and noise, 
Who never felt, within his heart, 
The charm which Nature can impart. 
May scorn, as being false or rude, 
The tender joy of solitude. 
He never left the vulgar crowd, 
Where empty mirth is sounding loud, 
To wander forth at eve alone. 
And hear the wild bird's gentle tone» 
He ne'er forsook his reveling, 
To greet the kind return of Spring — - 
To stray among the op'ning flowers. 
And taste the bliss of musing hours. 
2 



10 

It is a charm he never feels, 

Which to the poet's bosom steals, 

When — Passion's raging power subdued 

By the low voice of Solitude — 

He woos his muse's gentle sway, 

And, meditative, takes his way, 

Through forest-shades, where murm'ring streams 

Wake in his bosom fancy-dreams — 

Where Contemplation makes her home. 

And bold Intrusion ne'er may come. 

Sweet hours of musing! how divine 
Your influence o'er this heart of mine ! 
How soothing is your gentle power. 
To calm the soul in sorrow's hour ! 
Oft at the evening twilight sweet, 
That time for meditation meet, 
I 've rambled in some silent dell, 
While summer dew-drops softly fell, 
And listened to the vesper song. 
Borne on the zephyr's breath along. 
Or roaming on some woody hill, 
Adown which gushed the noisy rill, 
I 've watched the sun his exit make. 
Into the distant, shining lake : 
And while I 've dreamed the hours away, 
That sweetly close the summer day. 
My spirit oft has caught the fire, 
Which nature's scenes alone inspire : 
And I have mused, till worldly care 
All fled and left me happy there ; 
And every sound, that I could hear, 
Brought untold music to my ear. 



11 

The warbling brooks, the chanting birds. 
The zephyrs, whispering spirit- words. 
Were fraught with heavenly melody : 
And every sight that I could see, 
Was clothed in untold beauty then, — 
The lake, bright-gleaming in the glen, 
The twilight, glowing in the sky, 
The lovely stars that shone on high — 
All seemed like things divinely given, 
To tell my ravished soul of Heaven. 

And I have felt, at that sweet hour, 
The kindling of devotion's power. 
Raptured in joy by such a scene. 
Its mighty Maker's name hath been 
A spell to bind me, stronger far, 
Than twilight sweet or evening star : 
And I have thought this lovely earth, 
Where Nature spreads such beauties forth, 
Her Maker ne'er designed to be 
The sad abode of misery. 
Man must have had, at first, a life 
Free from the dark'ning storms of strife, — 
A soul for aye to tasle a bliss, 
As tender, as divine as this : 
Then I have sighed, that he whose joy 
Was thus prepared without alloy. 
Whose God designed that he should be 
In happiness forever free, 
And gave to him immortal breath, 
Without the blighting fear of death, 
Should forge the chains that made him slave, 
And dig the pit that proved his grave. 



12 

And I have longed, at such an hour, 
To feel for aye the gentle power 
That sheds such kindly influence, 
O'erruling every baser sense, — 
Transforming earth, where Sorrow sighs. 
Into a blooming Paradise, 
Where Pleasure's own ecstatic note 
Is heard upon the breeze to float. 

Those happy hours, when they are fled. 
Continue still their light to shed : 
I feel their influence when, again, 
I mingle in the walks of men, 
I learn to weep for mortal wocy 
Whose chilling hand, where'er we go^ 
Has cast a sad and cruel blight 
O'er earth's best sources of delight : 
And, as the scene I ponder o'er, 
I love my God and Nature more ; 
And think, that in our journey here, 
Where life is spent 'twixt smile and tean 
Nought has a solace for the heart, 
Like that which musing hours impart. 

Since childhood's lovely season shed 
Its happy dreams about my head. 
My heart, by Nature's charm subdued. 
Has loved the name of Solitude. 
When Spring, in virgin beauty clad, 
Lights up the earth with radiance glad. 
I love to ramble through the grove. 
Where every songster sings of lovcj 



13 

Where every flower, on turf or bough. 

Seems meet to grace fair Beauty's brow. 

With Contemplation by my side, 

And airy Fancy for my guide. 

I wander on, regardless where, 

Through Nature's bowers, so sweet and fair, 

While vagrant thought is backward cast. 

And Mem'ry's busy with the past- 

Oh ! then I love to muse upon 

The days of childhood swiftly gone. 

The op'ning buds, the blooming flowers. 

Bring sweet to mind those happy hours. 

When Life's young tree was blossoming, 

In all the gayety of spring. 

And while each picture in the scene 

Recalls some pleasure, that hath been, 

I 'm forced to sigh, with fond regret, 

For hours that I can ne'er forget. 

When Autumn pale usurps his sway, 
And drives bright summer far away. 
When mournfully he spreads his gloom, 
So sad, o'er Earth's fair vernal bloom, 
'Tis then the hour I love to be 
Roaming with meditation free: 
And while in loneliness I stray, 
I 'm happy, though I am not gay. 
When forest leaves are withered — sear, 
And every grove is sad and drear : 
When summer fields have lost their sheen. 
And all is brown that late was green, 
When autumn gales their moaning tell. 
And distant cascades sing farewell, 
2* 



14 

When flowers have ta'en their long, long sleeps 

Oh ! then, 'tis bliss itself to weep ! 

Then do I love to roam afar 

From human noise and human jar : 

And while I gaze on beauty dead, 

I think of joys that now are fled. 

Each autumn scene brings back to me, 

Some by.gone, faded memory ; 

And I am forced to drop a sigh, 

That earthly joys so quickly die. 



When Night's dim shadows float along, 
And evening birds begin their song — 
When stars light up their lamps on high, 
And Cynthia mounts the lovely sky, 
Full often, 'neath her stately throne, 
I wander forth to muse alone. 
The nightingale that sings so sweet, 
The cricket chirping at my feet, 
The owl that hoots from out his nest, 
The night-hawk screeching in the west. 
All fill the air with melody — 
A sweet, harmonious symphony : 
And while I list their varied song, 
Borne on the breezes faint along, 
My musing fancy roves afar, 
Through regions high, from star to star - 
She visits every astral light, 
Upon the sparkling vault of night, 
And fills a world, made by her hand, 
With beings from a fairy land. 



15 

In these fond moments there 's a speli 
Upon me, which no tongue can tell, — 
A gentle, holy influence, 
Unlike the common joys of sense : 
It is a tender ecstacy — 
The sacred charm of poesy : 
And in these hours, which to the muse belong, 
I love to weave the harmonies of song. 



THE SWALLOW'S FAREWELL. 

[It is a well-known fact, that swallows suddenly disappear, 
about the latter part of September.] 



The summer months had passed away ; 

September's lurid sun 
Was sending forth his sultry ray, 

The yellow fields upon — 

As I, one morn, was wandering. 
Where Fancy's guidance led, 

I saw a swallow, twittering 
Upon his native shed. 

Sad, lonely, yet melodious. 

His song was borne away : 
I listened while he warbled thus 

His latest farewell lay. 



16 

Adieu to the land, where my infantile wing 
Was taught through the regions of ether to spring ; 
Adieu to the scenes which so lovely appear — 
I quickly must leave you, for Autumn is near. 

His spirit, e'en now, is pervading the air, 
When the sun has departed to rest in his lair: 
I felt him last night breathing into my nest, 
In spite of the warmth of my feathery vest. 

The hollyhock bloomed, and in beauty was bright 
As a rose in the spring, when the sun set at night ; 
But a damp, chilling breath was breathed on it ere morn, 
And when the sun rose, it looked dim and forlorn. 

A poisonous dew was sent forth on the breeze, 
And an ague was caught by the leaves of the trees : 
They looked sad the next morning, and have from that day ; 
And the cause is the spirit of Autumn, they say. 

In the stillness of midnight, his voice I can hear. 
In murmurings hollow and whisperings drear : 
It is borne on the gale even into our shed, 
And ne'er fails to fill me with trembling and dread. 

And even by day he is seen, when the storm 
Raises high in the west its tempestuous form : 
He rides on the cloud that is ruled by his sway, 
And we plainly can see he is looking this way. 

And Autumn's rude power will quickly be here ; 
The grass shall be withered, the leaf shall be sere ; 
And I must depart, for how can I remain. 
When the cold breath of Autumn sweeps over the plain ? 



17 

The meadow and pond I must now bid adieu, 
Over which, through the summer, so gaily I flew ; 
And the yard where I sung, — I must leave it at last. 
To echo the moan of the wintery blast. 

I shall visit the isles of the billowy deep, 
Where the torrid sun hushes the breezes to sleep : 
I shall rest, for a while, on a cocoa-nut tree, 
Then seek an asylum far over the sea. 

I shall pass o'er the desert sands, parched by the drouth, 
And shall find me a home in the flowery south ; 
Odoriferous breezes shall bear me away — 
Farewell, native shed, I no longer can stay. 

No more I heard, he ceased his song. 

And left the lowly shed, 
To join an emigrating throng, 

In air above my head. 

Joyful that feathered host appeared ; 

Their voices filled the air : 
Their merry-fluttering wings I heard, 

As I stood gazing there. 

They passed me by in speedy flight, 

That numerous company. 
And quickly vanished from my sight, 

Into the southern sky. 



18 



THE BURIAL OF THE REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIER. 



He had lived in an age remote from ours, 
When the proud oppressor was made to flee ; 

He had seen the strife of contending powers, 
And joined in the struggle for liberty. 

He had heard the shrill trumpet's note of gloom, 

As it rose on the battle's sulphurous breath : 
He had seen the nod of the soldier's plume, 

As he bounded over the field of death. 

• 
He had seen when the clouds of oppression hung, 

Like a gloomy pall o'er our lovely land ; 
And he heard when the peal of Freedom rung, 

And her sceptre gleamed as an angel's wand. 

He survived till the race was nearly gone, 
That lived in that age of the song and tale ; 

His comrades were dead, and he stood alone. 
Like a hoary tree in a lonely vale. 

A race had arisen beneath his eye. 

Who had read of the scenes he saw in his prime ; 
And they scarce could believe, when they saw him die, 

That he was a son of that olden time. 



19 

But his hairs were white, and his eyes were dim, 
That had glisten'd once, in their youthful pride ; 

A call from eternity summoned him. 
And the veteran soldier calmly died. 

He was borne to his grave by a martial band, 
As if he had died on the battle field, 

Where foe met foe with a slaughtering hand, 
And the thundering cannon loudly pealed : 

But they bore him not from that field of gloom; 

Nor were those his friends of that martial day. 
Who escorted him now to the lonely tomb. 

With the sounding drum and in battle array. 

Yet there tottered along by the soldier's bier, 
A few of his friends of the time gone by. 

Who had stood by his side in that hour of fear, 
W^hen ihey burst the foul bands of slavery. 

All lonely they stood by the soldier's grave, 
While a tear was bedewing each furrowed face, 

As they thought of their youthful comrade brave. 
Who was slumbering now in Death's embrace. 

They seemed like as many mountain pines, 

All withered and bare by the tempest's sway ; 

That stood quite alone on the mount's confines, 
With a trunk now fallen beneath them lay. 

They laid him down in his narrow bed, 

While sadness reigned in each silent breast ; 

They fired a salute above his head, 
And left the veteran there to rest. 



20 



FAREWELL TO SUMMER. 



Farewell to Sainmer — her reign now is ended, 
Her moments of gladness have taken their flight < 

The scenes which so long she enchantingly blended, 
Have gone like a dream or a vision of night. 

Farewell to Summer — her forest hath faded, 

The scenery, once joyful, grows lonely and drear; 

The leaves on the boughs, that once pleasantly shaded, 
Chill Atitumn is now making yellow and sear. 

Farewell to Summer — her flowers have perished, 
That over our pathway so gaily were spread : 

The rose and the violet fondly we cherished, 
But now they are withered — are faded and dead. 

Farewell to Summer — her birds that were singing 
Their matins so gay 'mid the leaves and the flowers^ 

Away on the breezes their courses are winging, 
To a land o'er the ocean, far distant from ours. 

Farewell to Summer — ^her gales that were sharing 
The freshness and fragrance of grove and of bower. 

Now sadly, through forests all faded, are bearing 
The chillness imparted by Autumn's rude power. 



21 

Farewell to Summer — her earliest treasures 

Have faded and gone like a gleam in the night. 

And the thought, through the year, of her loveliest pleasures, 
In mem'ry shall greet us with lonely delight. 

Farewell to Summer — her exit may bear us 

This truth, that nought pleasant, if earthly, can stay — 

Though youth, with its brightness enchanting, may cheer us, 
This season so joyous is passing away. 

Farewell to Summer — her requiems greet us, 

In sounds which the lone breezes waft to our ear : 

Thus joys that are faded, in mem'ry shall meet us, 
And pleasures departed shall call for a tear. 



STANZAS. 



'Tis sweet to behold, when 'tis passing away, 

The blush in the fading west ; 
When, far o'er the mountains, the " Fatlier of day " 

Has sunk in his coueh to rest. 

And sweet is the sight, when the moon is forth. 

And the stars are shining above ; 
When their light that beams on the sleeping earth, 

Makes the night a season for love. 
3 



22 

*Tis sweet to behold — when the spring has come — 

The forest in robes so bright ; 
When the flowers have returned to their former home, 

To give to the groves delight. 

*Tis charming to hear, on the vernal breeze, 

The music of waterfalls sweet ; 
When birds, on the boughs of the flowery trees, 

Their matins of joy repeat. 

'Tis charming to list to the sound which will wake, 

From the strings of the soft guitar ; 
And sweet 'tis to hear, o'er ihe limpid lake. 

The " mellow horn " sounding afar. 

But the sweetest of sights that to me can appear, 

Is what beams in a loved one's eye ; 
And the sweetest of music is borne to my ear, 

On the breath of that loved one's sigh. 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 



Oft I've seen the morning twilight, 
As the day came on apace, 

Gleaming in the eastern sky-light, 
Ere the sun commenced his race :• 



23 



Thus, thought I, Hope's gentle beaming, 

From a dark futurity, 
O'er our pathway brightly gleaming, 

Tells of pleasures yet to be. 

Oft Pve seen the hues of even, 
In the bright, unclouded west, 

Smiling o'er the azure heaven, 

When the sun had gone to rest: — 

Thus, thought I, fond Mem'ry lingers. 
O'er the moments fled away, 

Pointing, with her fairy fingers, 
To our pleasures, gone for aye. 



SUNSET. 



How gentle and calm is the heavenly scene, 
When the day is fast fading along in the sky ; 

When the bright star of even, so sweet and serene, 
In the twilight is peacefully shining on high. 

Oh ! thus, when the light of this life fades away, 
May my day sink away in an evening as blest ; 

And thus may the bright star of hope shed its ray, 
To point me in peace to a happier rest. 



24 



ALL THINGS ARE FLEETING. 



The tint which paints the sky, 

At day's declining, 
First raises blushingly 

Its beauteous shining ; 
But, chased by shades of night. 

In ruthless sway, 
This lovely -gleaming light 

Soon fades away. 

Thus, in this changing world, 

All things are fleeting, 
Scarcely to us unfurled. 

Our senses greeting, 
Ere, with destruction sure. 

Time, in rude haste, 
Makes all that could allure, 
A dreary waste. 

We see the flowers which Spring 

In gladness raises, 
We hear gay warblers sing 

Their festive praises; 
We see the fields arrayed 

In verdure bright; 
The leafy groves displayed, 

Our souls* delight : 



25 

We look again, the scene 

Is changed to sadness ; 
The fields and forest greea 

Are 'reft of gladness ; 
The flowers of varied hue 

Are faded, gone ; 
The birds their last adieu 

Have sung, and flown. 

Drear Autumn's chilling hand, 

So stern and savage, 
Has made throughout the land, 

This fearful ravage: 
Thus passing time doth bring 

Us on our course ; 
Alas ! how swift his wing. 

How great his force! 

We sport away awhile, 

In merry childhood; 
Our cheeks wreathe with a smilo, 

In gay and wild mood ; 
But soon away must glide 

This shortened span ; 
Time hastens on to guide 

Our course to man. 



Youth vainly throws around 
Its sweetest pleasures ; 

They're tasted, and are found 
But fleeting treasures: 
3* 



26 



Our brightest hopes, made real^ 
Would scarce suffice — 

Yet oft each hope ideal 
In blossom dies. 



The rays of Friendship bright, 

Love*8 tender feeling, 
With new and strange delight 

Our bosoms thrilling — 
These cheer us in our youths 

But they must fade; 
Scarce tasted, they're forsooth 

In Lethe laid. 



Wealth holds his glittering gold, 

In view before us ; 
Fame's light sheds, as of old, 

Its influence o'er us : 
But gold must quickly rust — 

Fame's beacon die ; 
Both name and riches must 

Forgotten lie^ 

Man passes on his way, 

A thing of sorrow ; 
The joy he knows to-day 

May flee to-morrow: 
His race must soon be run — 

How soon, alas ! 
His hours of life fleet on^ 

And quickly pass. 



27 

Yet, though earth's joy must die, 

There is a pleasure, 
Prepared for man on high — 

A blissful treasure : 
Ere joyless thou art cast 

On Death's black sea, 
Oh ! make it thine, 'twill last 

Eternity. 



TO C0MI8. 



Is it a crime to love ? Ah yes T 
Methinks I hear thee sternly say, 

" On him who tastes the unhallowed bliss, 
Let direful vengeance have its sway !'* 

It is a crime indeed ; and I 

Must humbly own my guilt to thee i 
To shun my fate I will not try, 

But ask, what is the penalty ? 

Already now methinks I see 

The cruel thumbscrew, or the rack, 

Or fiercer engine built for me, 

Or faggots piled around the stake : 

But no ! these things have passed away ; 

Nor more they cause their victims' cries ; 
And so, return and search, you say, 

In our own laws, for penalties. 



20 

The code from which just laws we learn, 
Contains this law for lawless men, — 

♦* As he has done, so in return 
Let it be done to him again." 

This is the law by which, at last, 
My righteous doom I would receive, 

And when the firm decree is past, 
I will not ask for a reprieve ! 

Nor judge nor jury need we now, 
Since 1 confess my crime to thee ; 

Thou art th' offended one, and thou 
The executioner shalt be. 

Justly condemned, I wait the time, 
Sweet Comis, when the hour shall be 

To seal my fate : love is my crime, 
Then let love be the penalty ! 



TO THE SAME. 



I KNEW *TW^AS LOVH. 



We met, aa strangers often meet, 
With friendly greeting met, 

A3 courteous strangers always greet, 
Though often to forget. 



29 



Time, hurried on : we met again, 
And Friendship met us there, 

And wove for us her golden chain 
And twined her garland fair. 

And soon I found those hours so blest 

Delighted more and more : 
Thy presence soon for me possessed 

A charm unknown before. 

Why did each moment seem so sweet. 
That I then spent with thee? 

And why did they so often meet 
My thoughts in memory ? 

Why did it give me such delight, 
To think you thought of me 1 

Why did I pass away the night 
In dreams of bliss and thee ? 

Why did each place appear so fair> 

Where we had been alone? 
Why did I love to linger there 

While gentle Cynthia shone? 

Why did that sacred halo shine 

Around one lovely name, 
Lighting my soul with rays divine — 

Dimming the light of fame ? 

Ah ! soon I learned the cause of this : 

A spirit from above, 
To spoil or consummate my bliss 

Had come ; I knew *twas love [ 



30 

Yes it was love that made thee seem, 

« The fairest of the fair." 
'Twas Love that blest my midnight dream, 

And brought thine image there. 

Yes it was Love ! and still the same 
Fond passion warms my heart, 

And, Comis, now the blissful flame 
Can never more depart. 

And oh ! what joy it brings to me — 

The hope that in thy breast, 
Love now has gained admission free, 

And finds a peaceful rest. 

I know this joy may pass — this bright 

Anticipation die, — 
My fondest dream of pure delight 

Forever from me fly ; 

The draught which nectar now appears, 

May prove but sorrow's cup : 
The flame which now my bosom bears. 

May burn my pleasures up : — 

But this can surely never be, 

If love reciprocal 
Now binds thy gentle heart to me, 

In union mutual. 

But if I now have loved in vain, 
(Which thou alone canst tell,) 

Then hasten, days of lasting pain, 
And, dreams of bliss, farewell ! 



31 



And yet the silken cord will bind 
As strongly round my heart : 

And in my bosom now I find 
The love-empoisoned dart. 

To strive to free myself were vain ; 

I could not if I would ; 
But then, dear girl, 'tis quite as plain, 

/ viould not if I could ! 



WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. 



The winter is gone and the spring is come 
And the snows that so late were flying, 

Have vanished away, and where'er we roam, 
Sweet flowers will soon be lying. 

How swiftly and sweetly the time has passed, 
Since among you I came a stranger ; 

But the winter is o'er — I must go at last, 
Through earth's fleeting scenes a ranger. 

Sweet hours I have had in the time gone by, 

And I can forget them never ; 
And Memory's tear will bedim my eye, 

When I think they have gone forever. 



32 

I shall think of thy friendship when I ara gone- 
Sweet tie that can ne'er be broken ; 

I have, of its firmness till life is flown, 
Full many a lovely token. 

I shall think of thee often when far away, 
And think thou of the youthful rover ; 

And often remember him when you pray, 
To the throne of the Great Jehovah. 

Knoxville, March, 1840. 



STANZAS. 



The Connecticut rolled his silver tide, 

Along in its joyful way ; 
And the flowers of spring, his bank beside, 

Were blossoming sweet and gay. 

A fair young girl along that stream, 

, Was straying with lightsome tread ; 
Her life as gay as the Naiad's dream, 
Far down in that river's bed. 

The fairy hand of Childhood sweet 

Its beauty around her threw, 
And she seemed a playmate gently meet, 

For the flowers that about her grew. 



33 

That stream, as he wandered to the sea, 

Loud murmured his way along ; 
And fondly chimed his melody^ 

With the notes of her cheerful song. 

The vesper wind was wont to play 

With her curls so dark and fair ; 
And the flowers ne'er bloomed so bright and gay^ 

As when in her silken hair. 

A year passed round — and Spring again 

Walked over the smiling land ; 
But that young maid ne'er gathered then 

Her flowers with a gentle hand ! 

The Connecticut rolled his silver tide, 

As he had done before ; 
But that sweet girl must roam beside 

His flowery bank no more ! 

He warbled still his note so dear, 

As he gently flowed along ; 
But sadly it fell on a sister's ear — 

'Twas a sister's funeral song ! 



•io 



The vernal breezes played above 
His sweetly murmuring wave ; 

But sad they seemed to the ear of love — 
They moaned o'er a sister's grave ! 

The loveliest flow'rets blossomed nigh, 
As they were wont to bloom ; 

But sad they seemed to a sister's eye — 
They were decking a sister's tomb. 
4 



34 



TO COMIS. 



GIVE HE THY HEABT. 



Though kindred, dear Comis, wherever they rove, 
Forever must claim thy affection and love, 
Though friends, all around thee, thy friendship may prove, 

Yet give me thy heart ! 

Though, in days long departed, perhaps though hast met 
Some youth whom thy bosom may never forget, 
Though thou lovest not now — then remember him; yet, 

Oh give me thy heart ! 

Though the friendship of others I 'm proud to possess. 
Yet thy friendship alone can my heart never bless, 
If no more thou wilt give, I as well may have less, 

Then give me thy heart : 

For that less would consign me to woe and despair, 
And scatter my hopes e'en as vapor and air ; 
Then, maid of my heart, deign to answer my prayer, 

Give, give me thy heart. 

Mine long has been gone, and I know 'tis with thee ; 
And still, my dear Comis, with thee let it be : 
I ask thee not now to return mine to me, 

But give me thy heart ! 



B5 



A TALE. 



There ia a gentle flower, that blooms for man, 
And blooms for him alone ; 'twas meant to cheer 
The journey of his earthly pilgrimage, 
And make that bright, which else were dark and drear. 
Its tender fragrance, o'er the path of man, 
Sheds such a heavenly, happy influence, 
That it will make a hovel, happier far 
Than kingly palace, where this flower blooms not ; 
And it will turn a solitary dell. 
Into an Eden, filled with Eden's bliss. 
'Tis quite as pleasant to the cottager, 
As to the king who aits upon a throne : 
'Twill bloom as sweetly in Iowa's wilds, 
As in the garden of a Persian prince. 
Man's grief its fragrance will alleviate, 
And make his joy a tenfold portion here j 
In health, 'twill be a wreath upon his brow ; 
In sickness, it will shed its healing balm : 
Through life, 'twill prove his sweetest comforter — 
His fondest joy ; and when he dies, 'twill breathe 
The breath of Heaven o'er his dying bed. 
This flower that blooms for man, is Woman^s love / 
But ah ! that man — vile, ingrate man ! that he 
Should ever crush the flower that blooms for him, 
And, like a viper, blast the earthly hopes 
Of that fair being who had cherished it, 



36 

Aye, cherished it to make him happy here— 
Oh ! 'tis the blackest shade that life can cast I 
Most cursed story in man's history ! 

I knew a maiden once of gentle mien, 
Around whose path, the vernal morn of life 
Shed its warm rays of beauty and of hope. 
The radiant glow of youth had graced her brow. 
With loveliness which youth alone imparts. 
If Nature ne'er had given her the charms, 
That dazzle, while admirers fondly gaze, 
Yet she was fair, and she was innocent. 
If Nature ne'er had given her a mind, 
That could have won the praises of a world- 
Yet too intelligent was she, to crave 
The empty, worthless bauble of a name. 
Her earthly wishes never reached beyond 
That sweet and lovely vale — her happy homcc 
She seemed by Providence designed to bless 
Some rural haunt, and, with her virtuous smile, 
To cheer the cotter's happy evening hours, 
And make his home a little Paradise. 
Her disposition was as sweet and mild. 
As is the wild dove in her native grove — 
As gentle as the violet, that blooms 
Fair though unnoticed, on its lowly bed. 
The rose of innocence, upon her cheek 
That bloomed so lovely, made her beautiful. 
Her bosom was the seat of pleasing hopes. 
That, telling of the future seemed to say — 
"There 's love and happiness prepared for thee.' 
Her ductile heart, the home of virtuous joy. 
Was made for love and warmest confidence: 



37 

And when she loved, her deep affection proved 
A rock that stemmed the angry storms of fate. 
This ductile heart, these gentle charms, alas ! 
Too plainly marked her for the spoiler's power. 

There was a youth, whose passion-kindling eye 
Had met this innocent and lovely girl ; 
And he, while gazing on the op'ning flower, 
Resolved (Oh shame !) to blast it in its bloom ! 
He was a youth of fair and noble look ; 
A soul beamed from his animated eye, 
And o'er his features, bright as morning's cheek, 
The manly lineaments of beauty traced. 
His stately form, his gentle, pleasing mien, 
His bland accomplishments, with every grace 
That Nature can impart — were such as win 
An easy victory over woman's heart, 
And waken love in her confiding breast. 
He had a mind of noble brilliancy, 
Which won, from every heart, a willing praise. 
His talents, even then, began to pluck 
The laurel wreath, to place it on his brow. 
Alas ! that such a form and such a mind 
Should e'er be joined to such a heart as his ! 
His character was known, for he before 
Had been a viper in the home of peace ; 
And yet he was respected and admired, 
And e'en the good did call him gentleman — 
A name most passing inappropriate, 
For such a wretch — aye, sxxch fiend as he ! 

He saw that maid, so innocent and fair, 
And by his winning grace and soft address, 

4* 



38 

He gained admittance to her home and heart. 

She thoughtlessly allowed his tender words 

To fall, in honeyed accents, on her ear : 

She lingered fondly in his company, 

And there permitted his alluring smile 

And gentle looks, to steal her heart away. 

She should have fled from his society, 

As if his eye had been a basilisk — 

As if his tongue had been a scorpion — 

His very presence death ! — but she did not f 

This was her fault, the rest was Ids alone. 

For by his soft and fascinating wiles, 

Her heart was charmed, and, ere she was aware, 

Her hopes were centered in that worthless man. 

A moonlight ramble— leaning on his arm — 

Was e'en the acme of her happiness ; 

And from his look, his smile, his flattering words — 

She wildly drank intoxicating bliss. 

Oh ! how she loved that vile, degenerate youth ! 

Her very soul was bound in his ; her self 

Was lost — her being concentrated there. 

Did he as fondly love her in return ? 

Ah no ! the selfish passion that he felt. 

Could ne'er deserve the sacred name of love. 

If her society e'er gave him joy, 

'Twas what the vulture feels when near the dove. 

His love was that which filled the Syren's breast, 

Who charms her victims only to devour. 

Some months passed by — they were her happiest days. 
For she believed him worthy of her lovft — 
And love deserved is happiness below. 



39 

But when he saw her, thus within his grasp, 

The heartless youth, by promise fair yet false. 

Ruined, and then forsook the erring maid ! 

Oh ! cursed blot upon humanity ! 

Who does not blush, to think that man can be 

Guilty of such a vile ingratitude ! 

The faithless youth forsook the ruined maid, 

That loved him so — forsook her in her shame ; 

Left her to bear the world's chill scorn alone, 

And broken-hearted, find an early grave* 

Like a crushed flower that struggles with its fate, 

She sadly lingered on, a lonely one, 

Shut out from an unfeeling world, and left 

By all her youthful mates, in her disgrace. 

The guiltless pledge of her confiding love 
Was born, when its vile father, far away, 
Among some other vain and giddy crowd, 
Was reveling in seeming gayety. 
But 'twas a mockery of happiness ; 
For in his blithest hours, the memory 
Of that sweet girl would visit him, and fill 
His aching breast with sadness and remorse. 
And when alone, his black ingratitude 
Would stare him in the face — a spectre grim — 
And it would haunt his dreams, and make his sleep 
A bitter cup, his couch a bed of thorns. 
The draught of happiness he tasted not ; 
For such dark crime its own tormentor is : 
And he who e'er should seek for fields of grain, 
Among the icebergs round the arctic pole, 
Or beds of roses in Sahara's sands — 



40 

And find them blooming there— that man might seek 
For happiness in vice and -find it not. 
Thus that frail youth — each fascinating art 
Was but a gairish cheat, to tempt his soul : 
And when the wanton's cold and heartless smile 
Was beaming on him, then, with sad regret, 
He thought of her — that lone, forsaken girl, 
That smiled upon him in her innocence. 

Disconsolate and weary of her life, 
She lived a year or two a prey to grief. 
The burning tears of heart-felt penitence, 
Fell on her pillow in the midnight hour. 
Her days were spent in sighs : no ray of joy 
E'er brightened up again her mournful eye. 
A happy family was plunged in grief: 
Brothers and sisters, parents dear and friends, 
Mourned o'er her shame as they had never mourned 
Above her stainless grave ; they wept for her — 
And e'en their tears were daggers in her heart. 
Oh ! how could she endure the painful thought, 
That her own guilt should make the friends she loved, 
Sharers in her disgrace and misery ! 

The world around was beautiful and gay : 
Yet Nature's gladness but increased her wo. 
She could not bear to hear the merry brook, 
Murmur its note so sweetly as it flowed ; 
Nor could she listen to the happy birds. 
That gaily sung their cheerful matin-song — 
Their gayety but told her of the day, 
When she was happy as the summer bird. 



41 

She could not bear to see the flowers of spring, 

Blooming along the vale, so sweet and fair — 

They told her of her faded innocence. 

Earth had no charm to heal her broken heart ; 

It was a sad and dreary place — and she 

Longed to repose beneath the silent ground, 

Where she might rest her weary head in peace — 

"Where she no more would hear a world's reproach. 

Her love for that vile youth, thus ill repaid. 

Her degradation and her silent grief 

Had done their fatal work. As some frail plant, 

On whose young root the blighting worm has preyed, 

Withers and dies while all its mates are green, — 

So faded that neglected one away, 

Slowly and sadly, 'neath a viper's power. 

Consumption pale (to her a welcome friend) 

Withered the roses, health had planted once 

Upon her gentle cheek, and left, instead. 

The lone and dreary blossoms of the tomb. 

Oh ! could her spoiler but have seen her thus, 
Fading away like twilight in the west — 
Could he have seen her meek, forgiving eye, 
And heard her dying lips implore from Heaven 
A blessing on his infant boy and him, 
Yea upon him, her guilty murderer ! 
He would have wept upon her snowy neck, 
Too late, the bitter tear of penitence. 
And craved forgiveness from that injured one : 
And when he saw the earth close over her 
Who loved him thus in life, he would have longed 
To lay him down beside her in the grave, 
That his unbroken rest might there be sweet. 



42 

But he saw not her fading cheek, nor heard 

Her dying benediction : far away 

'Mong other scenes was he ; and when he heard. 

That she whom he had ruined, slept in death — 

A start, a passing shudder — and no more 

Of grief in him the busy world beheld. 

But if his heart was not of adamant, 

If his seared conscience was not turned to steel — 

It wakened in his bosom bitler pangs, 

That will not sleep while memory shall live. 

And when at Hymen's gentle shrine he bowed, 

And breathed on other lips his nuptial vow — 

If then he thought not of the vow he made 

To her who slumbered now in Death's cold arms — 

If then he thought not of his infant son 

Forsaken too — 'twas that his breast had ceased 

To feel the throbbings of humanity. 

Calmly that maiden closed her eyes in death. 
She cast on earth no " longing lingering look :" 
Its power to charm her spirits long had fled, 
And Hope and Peace sweet beckoned her away. 
She left the dreary world, where Sorrow's cup 
Had been her bitter draught : she left the scene 
Of all her ruined hopes ; and we may trust 
That she has found a peaceful, happy home. 
Where ingrates never come — where mournful Grief 
Dries up her tears, and where the weary rest. 
Her friends, in sadness, bore her to the tomb : 
They could not mourn her death — they long ago 
Had wept for her untimely fate — and now, 
If fond Affection's tear was in their eye, 
'Twas the renewal of their former grief. 



4a 

They laid her in a lowly grave ; and there, 

Sweet shall her resting be : no look of scorn 

Shall bring upon her cheek the blush of shame. 

No taunting words from an unfeeling world, 

Shall ever cause the sighing maiden's tear; 

No dreams shall haunt her there ; her grave shall bo 

Her peaceful bed, till Time's swift flight is o'er. 

That innocent and gentle child survives 
Its frail unhappy mother ; oft I've seen 
The lovely little one, and ne'er before 
Have I beheld so roseate a boy. 
Sweet Childhood's ringlets now are clustering 
Upon his brow; and Hope, with promise fa'r, 
Is smiling gently o'er her happy charge. 
His radiant eye has borrowed, for its hue, 
The azure tint that paints the vernal sky. 
His rosy cheek is blooming now as gay. 
As blooms the lily by the water brook. 
A gentle ray of bright intelligence 
Beams mildly from his lovely eye, which tells 
Of a pure soul within : he is indeed 
The guiltless image of his guilty sire, 
Whose lips have never blest his infant son. 
The earliest mem'ry of the bright-eyed boy, 
Recalls not now the image of her face. 
Who faintly smiled upon his infancy, 
And dropped a mother's tear upon his head. 
His heartless father's face he never saw ; 
No kind paternal hand e'er smoothed his brow, 
And no paternal kiss e'er pressed his cheek. 
Oh ! he should see him iin his loveliness. 
Unconscious of his lonely orphanage— 



44 

Should see the rosy smile upon his lip, 
And hear his laugh of boyish innocence, 
And he would long to clasp him in his arms. 
But he ne'er seeks for his neglected boy ; 
The giddy world admire him, and his name 
Scarce e'er is coupled with his infamy. 
Oh when will Virtue take her proper stand. 
And cast on Vice her angry withering frown, 
Till the base ravisher of innocence 
Shall hide his head in ignominious shame ! 

The erring maiden sleeps beneath the sod, 
And o'er her early grave dim Sadness sits : 
The palest flowers of Summer love to bloom 
In that forsaken spot, and there the bird 
Of evening sings his melancholy song. 
The gloomy mulien bends its lonely head 
In autumn there, sad waving in the wind : 
And the faint breeze, in mournful cadence, tells 
Its tale of sorrow, o'er her sleeping head. 
Ye fair, whose innocence is yet as pure 
As pearly dew-drop on the rose's bud. 
Whose hearts are sacred shrines of happiness. 
And on whose cheeks pale Sorrow never sat, 
Gather around your fallen sister's tomb ! 
And while ye list the story of her fall. 
And Fancy hears, upon the autumn air. 
Some gentle spirit sing her requiem — 
So faint and mournful too — Oh ! may ye learn 
A lesson from the fate of Emeline! 



45 

REQUIEM. 

Soft be the zephyr's breath 

Over thee sighing, 
Where, in the sleep of death, 

Low thou art lying. 
Sweet may the rose of spring, 

In its first bloom 
Over thee blossoming, 

Shed its perfume. 

Faint be the parting ray 

Over thee shining, 
When the long summer day 

Fast is declining. 
Low may the vesper tone 

Sigh o'er the spot. 
Where the forsaken one 

Slumbers forgot. 

Peace to thy weary head, 

Down on its pillow. 
While o'er thy lowly bed, 

Waves the sad willow ! 
Gently, Oh ! gently rest. 

Now in thy tomb. 
Far from thy sleeping breast 

Sadness and gloom. 

Here shall no thought of shame 
Trouble thy sleeping, 

While o'er thy fallen fame, 
Dew-drops are weeping 1 
5 



46 

Here shall thy sorrow ftee 

From thee away, 
Here shall thy resting be 

Sweet and for aye ! 



POEMS OF AN EARLY DATE 



DREA.MS. 



When night in darkness shrouds the land, 
And all mankind beneath the hand 
Of guardian angels — have retired 
T' enjoy the rest which God required 
To be man^s necessary rest — 
Then all, by gentle Sleep caressed^ 
Held in his strong yet fond embrace, 
Again their path of life retrace. 

In visions wild, they then renew, 

The scenes which they have once passed through- 

The scenes of pleasure, where they felt 

Their hearts in sweetest friendship melt — 

Blest hours of happiness and love, 

Dawning upon them from above. 

In visions bright they seem to see 

Deep into dark futurity. 



47 

They dream of pleasures which indeed 
Their happiest waking hours exceed ; 
They dream of joys which ne'er before, 
They thought for them were laid in store 
And every thought, which they assay 
T' amuse their fancy with by day, 
Is wildly realized by night, 
In dreams of pleasure and delight. 

All — all awake as morning light 
Revisits earth and greets their sight ; 
And while again, in memory, 
Their vagrant, foolish dreams they see, 
They're forced, though sadly, to confess, 
All is an empty nothingness: 
So Folly's pleasures, when they're past, 
And viewed by Wisdom's light at last, 
Appear like dreams at morning light, 
Vain, empty visions of the night. 



THE ADDRESS OF "THE GRAPE-GATHERER," 
A minikin newspaper, written in Stockbridge Academy.) 



1 come in humble form, 'tis true, 

And clad in robes of lowly guise; 
But for this, readers, surely you 

Will not my worth despise. 



48 

^Tis not the sweetest flower that blooms. 

Which lifts its head so loftily, 
But many a flow'retisweeter blooms, 
Hid in obscurity. 

Thus Fate has circumscribed my state, 
And hidden from the world my name, 
I dwell not now among the great, 

Nor strive to build my fame. 

The high-soul'd, burning eloquence 

Which senates hear, the poesy 
Glowing with lofty thought intense, 
I do not bring with me : 

But what to me is more than they, 

I bring the youthful thoughts with mo, 
Of those who future poets, yea 
And orators may be. 

Then, gentle students, I would crave 
A kind acceptance now from you ; 
And I your brightest thoughts will save, 
If they be chaste and true : 

But noxious weeds, of ugly shapes, 

We ne'er receive within a bower ; 
So while I cull the sweetest grapes, 
I shall neglect the sour. 



49 



THE SCHOOL.BOY'S COMPLAINT. 



Oh ! what a woeful lot have I, 
A student of the Academy ! 
What tasks to learn, while slow away 
Passes, like years, the live-long day ! 
I 'm tired to death of grammar rules, 
And think the men who made them fools ; — 
As though we can't speak well enough, 
Without their noun-and-pronoun stuff! 
The very name "Arithmetic" 
Is quite enough to make me sick: 
Addition and Suhtraction ! oh, 
Would to Oblivion they might go ! 
Whene'er (and oft it is) I find 
A problem hard, I 've then a mind 
To go to sleep, and so, no doubt, 
I finally might dream it out : 
But when I think my eyes to close. 
And give to Lethe all my wocs, 
When Fancy's hand begins to rear 
Her lofty castles in the air. 
Sudden they fall with thundering smash, 
And I am wakened by the crash. 
But grammar, 'rithmetic, and all, 
Do not begin my heart to appall, 
As does that horrid apparition, 
That pest of school-boys — "Composition!" 
5* 



50 



'Tis worse than all in fable told, 

Of monstrous images of old — 

More frightful than Medusa's head, 

More odious than the Harpies dread — 

More to be shunned than Scylla's rock, 

Or dire Charybdis' whirlpool shock — 

More to be feared than spectral gleams 

Or goblins grim or night-mare dreams. 

Yet once a week this direful thing 

I 'm forced to meet ; would I could bring 

Sufficient force to kill or banish. 

So that her form from earth might vanish, 

'Tis strange that I 'm desired to learn ; 

I do not wish, at all, to earn, 

By study here, a glorious name, 

And enter in the ranks of fame. 

I would prefer to live in peace, 

And not for learning sell mv ease. 

The wisest man of all the men, 

That ever lived or will again. 

Said knowledge doth consist of pain ; 

He should have added, it is plain, 

" If painful be the mere possession, 

Thrice horrid is the acquisition 1" 



51 



A MUS.CVLAR AFFRAY. 



Old Time's jarring steps cause to crumbl 

The effects of the architect's toil ; 
And segments to earth will successively tumble. 

Till nothing is left but a spoil. 

And it happened in our "hall of science," 

That a portion of ceiling above, 
Which to shocks of rude years, long had bidden defiance, 

Fell down — my assertion to prove. 

Perhaps the great cause was the pressure ' «» 

Of knowledge, here carefully pent, 
Which, if ever compressed by too gahing a measure. 

Would somewhere, of course, find a vent. 

Be this as it mav ; it did leave there 

An entrance for cruel Jack Frost : 
And by all that is cold, I sincerely believe there 

Was no opportunity lost. 

For if fingers and toes could have spoken, 

They had told of the grief they were in ; 
And the way that the wind whistled through the place broken, 

As Crocket would say, was a sin. 

Perhaps 'twas the breath of the Genius, 

Who, making that place his abode. 
Inspires us with visions of fame, and v/ill screen us 

From dullness — a burdensome load. 



52 

Students thought he intended to freeze them, 

And, shivering and shaking all o'er, 
Declared, if 'twas so, that it never could please them, 

To court his fair smiles any more. 

But some finger, with friendly intention, 

Performed a kind act for the rest. 
By papering the spot, in the way of prevention, 

To such an unmannerly guest. 

But think how Fate ordered to cheat us ! 

An enemy, though not so cold, 
Ne'ertheless to our faces determined to treat us 

With as much disrespect as the old. 

A quadruped, known to Grimalkin, 

His faculties dental employed. 
Till a part of the kindly benevolent calking 

By him was quite rudely destroyed. 

'Twas one of the muses, or mouses, 

(And where is the diff'rence between 'em 1) 

That always attend scientifical houses, 
And in private ones too, I have seen 'em ! 

Perhaps he did wish (the poor mortal!) 

For a portion of science below ; 
And his gnawing was merely to open a portal, 

That knowledge might up to him flow. 

But the motive that prompted the critter, 
Was unknown to the students within ; 

So the sight did cause many an urchin to titter, 
Which soon made a horrible din. 



53 

No wonder that these things should send to 

Our teacher more cares than would do; 
For he surely had bipeds enough to attend to, 

Without quadrupeds vexing him too. 

He gave a fierce glance at the culprit, 

Thus working away without rule, 
And declared the intruder should have his young skull split. 

For breaking "iAe orders of school*'^ 

He seized on a weapon so thick thro', 

T'would have sent a huge elephant reeling; 

He struck at the foe, and — mirabile dictu ! — 
He mortally wounded — the ceiling f 



AMERICA. 



(A fragment of a poem, spoken at a public exhibition, at 
Stockbridge Academy, February, 1839. 



* * * * While nations stood. 
By war and carnage deluged all in blood — 
While oriental cities rose and fell. 
Jarring th§ earth beneath the mighty spell — 
While haughty kings lived, reignsd, and found a tomb, 
To be forgot ; here was our now proud home ! 



54 



Here had she been since Time his race begun ; 
Here his swift evolutions he had run ; 
But fleeting years brought not one ray to bless 
This long, dark midnight of forgetfulness. 



The seasons all successive went and came, 
But through the passing year, it was the same — 
Lonely and drear : in brightest spring-time, when 
New foliage o'erspread the hill and glen, 
Or when the heat of Summer's sun had dried 
The murm'ring rills, upon the mountain's side, 
Or when the chilling breath of Autumn drear 
Had chased the verdure from the forest sear, 
Or when droad Winter reifjned in silence chill — 
It was the same — sad, solitary still. 
For when glad Spring had decided the forest greeri, 
No fair and flowery meadows might be seen, 
Or lambkins, skipping in their sportive train, 
Or ploughmen toiling on the fertile plain. 
When Summer's heat had burdened every breeze, 
And songless birds reposed among the trees. 
Then there appeared no fields of yellow corn, 
Waving before the softest breath of morn. 
Autumn no golden store of fruit could show; 
W^inter, nought but a forest clad in snow. 
All was a gloomy wilderness, save where 
The level prairie spread itself afar. 
With many a buflalo, in native pride, 
Feeding along the river's grassy side ; — 
Or where the Rocky Mountains, towering high, 
Their snow-clad summits reared into the sky, 



55 

Where the lone eagle made his drear abodfe, 
Far — far above where human foot e'er trod, 
Where, standing on the rock's projecting hight, 
He seemed sad Desolation's guardian sprite ; — 
Or where the mighty lake, out-spreading wide, 
Appeared as 'twere an ocean's boundless tide, 
With countless sea-fowls slowly flying o'er, 
Or nesting on the solitary shore ; — 
All, save on these, was nought but forest-gloom : 
It seemed, indeed, some fallen world's lane tomb^ 
Where, by the potent arm of Vengeance laid, 
She slept beneath Oblivion's dark shades. 

Among these scenes of Nature dwelt a race 
Of men — fit owners of their native place ; 
For as the glens and hills and forest lone, 
Where they pursued their game, were Nature's own, 
So they were Nature's children ; by her rule 
Alone were governed, taught but in her school. 
They seemed to hold a rank between the brute 
And man enlightened ; earth's spontaneous fruit 
Served for their dctily bread, with which content, 
Their thoughts towards future gain were never bent^ 
The hostile warriors, an their native plains, 
With bravery fought, covered with crimson stains. 
They dropped by thousands on the slippery ground, 
Anil o'er their mangled clay, the lofty mound 
Was by their comrades reared, their sons to tell, 
Where many a sachem, boldly fighting, fell. 

****** 

Years swift have fled, — but what a change is here ! 
What revolutions, in their strange carecE, 



56 

Have passed upon the earth ! America, 

That howling wilderness, where but the swajr 

Of savages was known, where beasts of prey 

Roamed in the forest, which the light of day 

Could scarcely penetrate — what now is she ? 

The earth's just pride, the Country of the Free I 

That band of pilgrims spread, as did, of old, 

The cloud by ancient Hebrew seer foretold, 

Which, though a speck upon the distant sky, 

Expanded o'er the mighty concave high. 

Th' unbroken forest from before them fled ; 

And cities great have risen in its stead. 

What now remains, of that vast wilderness, 

Is loft to cheer the prospect, and to bless 

The hearts of happy mortals, who may love 

Among fair Nature's noble scenes to rove. 

The husl)andman upon the fruitful plain, 

Now, in each autumn, reaps the yellow grain : 

And school-boy shouts, upon the passing gale, 

Come up melodious from the lovely vale. 

America now stands upon the bight 

Of power: in her young but lordiy might, 

She made the Despot tremble, as she taught 

The proud oppressor how her brave sons fought. 

In every realm, upon the distant sea, 

Her starry banner waves in triumph free : 

And round her shores, proud fleets now deck the flood, 

Where all, before, was " Ocean's solitude." 

She sits upon the summit, now, of Fame; 

And ancient kingdoms ne'er could boast a name, 

More glorious than her own ; even Greece and Rome 

Could scarcely vie with our exalted home. 



57 

But where, alas ! are now those dusky men, 
Who once inhabited the forest glen ? 
A voice from Lethe, as her wave rolls on, 
Comes up, in accents audible, — '* They'^ve gone^^ 
Yes, they have gone ; within the forest drear. 
No more, with steps alert, they'll chase the deer. 
The bloody warrior's shout no more sliall rise. 
From off the battle field, up to the skies : 
And the loud war-whoop, borne upon the gale. 
Shall echo ne'er again, from vale to vale. 
Save a small remnant, on the western shore, 
Those powerful Indian tribes are now no more. 
There a few warriors still pursue the chase, 
Though but a shadow of the mig'ity race. 
There the shrill war-song now may echo free, 
But even there \i soon shall cease to be : 
For, as if born to live in darkness, they, 
Before the light of knowledge, fade away ; 
And, standing now upon Time's narrow brink. 
They soon into oblivion shall sink. 
The mound yet stands upon the western plains, 
And, o'er the warrior's tomb, lone silence reigns 
Green verdure grows above his dust forgot; 
And in the autumn o'er the lonely spot, 
The long grass, standing where the red men fell, 
Siglis to the passing gale, their lart farewell. 



58 



ENOCH. 

"And Enoch walked with God, and lie was not, for God 

took him." 



*Twas at the early dawn of time, 
When Earth was young, and in her primcj. 
Ere God, in vengeance, sent his floods 
To drown the scoffing multitude : 
It was allowed that man might see 
Ages pass to eternity, 
Before his body he must lay, 
Beneath the cold and silent clay, 
*Twas not as now, when mortal man. 
Confined to three score years and ten^ 
Can scarcely see a hope mature. 
Ere, like an early- fading flower, 
The locks that round his forehead wave? 
Must whiten for the gloomy grave,. 
But his long race, though it might last^ 
While ages thus rolled slowly past, 
Must have an end ;— Man's history — 
Replete with many a century, 
That well the lengthened scroll supplied — 
Ended with two short words — "/fe died.'* 

But there was one, beloved of God, 
Who through the earth in virtue trod ; 



59 

And when his pilgrimage was o'er, 
And time with him could be no morej 
Not like the rest, his exit he 
Did make into eternity. 
No rank disease, the seed of death, 
Took then away his vital breath : 
No parting sighs and tears were shed, 
By friends around his dying bed. 
No mourners sad his corse did bear, 
In sorrow to the grave-yard drear ; 
And there no rattling clods did tell, 
To aching hearts, his last farewell. 
No lovely flowers of summer shed 
Their balmy fragrance o'er his head ; 
Nor did the tuneful birds of spring 
Their matins o'er his ashes sing. 
Beneath the briny ocean deep, 
He mouldered not, where monsters creep, 
Where pearls shine fair, and corals grow. 
Among the caverns far below. 

He did not pass Death's awful flood — 
Upon the earth he walked with God — 
His journey done, God bade him come. 
And smiled on him, and took him home. 



60 



THE NEWLY.WEDDED. 



The long, long wished-for time has come, at last, 
To which Anticipation looked with joy; 

'Tis come, and all the bliss, that, in the past, 
Bright Fancy saw, you taste without alloy. 

'Tis come, and you have left youth's joyful ranks, 
To travel, hand in hand, through scenes untried, 

To gather flowers, from off Time's smoothest banksj 
Or brave the storms upon his angry tide* 

Oh ! joy be with you, happy — ^liappy pair \ 

Still may you cull the flowers of youthful love; 

And when in time no more this bliss you share, 
Then may you pluck a brighter wreath above* 



STANZAS* 



" Well, peace to thy heart, though another's it be, 

And health to thy cheek, though it bloom not for me." — Moon is. 



When first, upon that wedding night. 
My eyes beheld thy youthful form, 

Thy beauty did my heart delight. 
With beauty's own resistless charm. 



61 



How passed the joyful moments on, 
In youth's fond, thoughtless reveh'v ! 

And, though forever they have gone, 
They're pleasant still in memory. 

Ah ! thou canst ne'er that night forget; 

I know those moments gave thee joy, 
And even now, a sad regret 

Will mingle — memory's alloy. 

'Twas at the close of autumn drear, 

When vegetation's last farewell 
The sighing blast brings to the ear, 

Lone as a distant funeral-knell. 

Congenial with my present feeling, 
Would be that lonely season now ; 

When grief's cold reign my joy is stealing. 
Depicting sadness on my brow. 

We parted — and methought thy eye 
Glistened as the tear half started; 

Methought thy lovely cheek glowed high- — 
But let that pass — alas ! we parted. 

We met again, when months had flown 

Swift in their course — we met in gladness ; 

With happiness before unknown, 
I met thee — but to part in sadness. 

But let it go — that painful dart, 

Which to my inmost soul was sped, 

When thou didst say, ere we did part. 
That thou wert shortly to be wed. 
6" 



62 

Yes, let it go — though we did part, 
And time has swiftly onward Hown, 

And thou art wed, and my young lieart, 
Is sad, disconsolate and lone — 

Yet, let it go ; I'll envy not 

Thy consort's joy, though grief to me j 
Though his can never be my lot, 

I surely wish him well for thee. 

Oh ! mayst thou live in pleasure glad — 

Thy bliss a gently flowing rill, — 
For me to know that thou art sad, 

Would make my sadness sadder still. 

I wish thee joy, where'er thou gocst ; 

Mayst ne'er regret thy bridal vow ; 
Mayst know, through life, the bliss thou knowest, 

A " Honey moon " as bright as now. 

And if, when I am far from thee, 

Thou 'It think of me in some lone hour. 

And drop one sigh for memory ; 

Thus blest, I ne'er can ask for more. 

Perhaps, when future days appear. 

For some fair one my love may be ; 
But can more bliss await me here, 

Than when I thought thou lovedst me? 



o 



I would not say I love thee now, 
It is what never might be said, 

To one who 's made her nuptial vow. 
Who sleeps upon her nuptial bed : 



63 

And though I say I loved thee ever ; 

It slilJ boots not to talk of love, 
Since marriage ties it can not sever, 

Nor alter the decrees above : 

But since relentless Fate hath said, 
To love's fond shrine I must not bend ; 

Since hopes like this are withered — dead, 
Then grant to me the name of friend. 

But fare thee well, I now must say, 

Though sad that word sounds as a knell 
And, since it parts us two for aye, 
Then once again, a long farewell ! 
August, 1838. 



LINES, 



To a young lady, who, at an evening party, accused the 
author of rudeness. 



Dear girl, if I am sometimes gay. 

And mirth is too much unsubdued. 
When blithesome passions hold their sway, 
Don't think me rude. 

Think not, — because that when I meet 

A youthful band in concert glad. 
Mirth strays too far with wandering feet — 
I 'm never sad : 



C4 

Ah ! think not so ; for oft with me, 
Sdd Melancholy makes her home, 
Subduing every thought of glee, 

Where'er I roam. 

Wiien autumn winds sigh o'er the plain, 

Or through the leaf-deserted bower, 
In them I hear a lonely strain, 

In sorrow's hour. 

Their mournful sound brings to my ear, 

For summer gone, a solemn knell ; 
To leaves and flowers in them I hear 
A sad farewell. 

And when I view the self-same spot. 

Where my bright boyhood gaily played, 
The orchard fair and meadow lot. 

Where oft I strayed, — 

And think those happy hours have fled — 

The happiest life e'er gives us here — 
O'er pleasures gone I'm forced to shed 
"A silent tear." - 

But, though these seasons thus may fill 

My heart with sadness and regret. 
Though they are fraught with sorrow, still 
'Tis sweet when met. 

I love sad Autumn's loneliness. 

When vegetation's passed away 
With all its charms, nor love the less. 
Because not gay. 



65 

I love to wander in the grove, 

When yellow leaves fall round me fast — 
Emblems of faded hopes, or love 
Worn out at last, 

I love to hear the robin sing 

His melancholy farewell lay, 
Before he spreads his buoyant wing, 
And flies away, 

I love to ramble musingly, 

Through fields where I was wont to chase 
The gaily colored butterfly, 

In infant days. 

And then 'tis sweet to wander near 

The brook, in childhood so well known. 
For in its sounds a voice I hear, 

From days bygone. 

Yet, these are scenes that always fill 

My heart with sorrow — sad and lone ; 
Though sweet, they're fraught with sadness still. 
And mirth is flown : — 

Then do not think — because that when 

I meet the young, in concert glad. 
My thoughtless heart is happy then— 
I 'm never sad. 



66 



DISAPPOINTED LOVE. 



Alas ! I knew that I was born to sorrow ! 

But little did I think the very thing, 
From which I hoped my highest bliss to borrow, 

Would prove the greatest cause of suffering. 

And yet, 'tis so ; a tree I fondly cherished, 

Whose thorns were hid by flowers divinely fair; 

But autumn came ; its leaves and flowers have perished, 
And piercing thorns alone are rankling there. 



ELEGY ON AN INDIAN BURYING.GROUND. 



Proud stranger, pass by, if thy tears can not flow, 
O'er the grave where the plebian rests from his wo ; 
If grandeur alone can from thee claim a tear, 
Pass by, for the Indian lies slumbering here. 

No monument rises to tell of his fame, — 

Not even is chiseled in marble, a name ; 

Yet, he sleeps quite as sweetly, thus low in his gloom, 

As if a huge pyramid rose o'er his tomb. 



67 

Unmarked the rude graves now appear to the view, 
And no mound lias arisen all recent and new ; 
For some swift-fleeting years have passed by as a breath, 
Since the last corse was laid here to slumber in death. 

No lover and friend come to weep o'er the tomb 

Of those so beloved, in life's transient bloom ; 

For they've gone far away, towards the setting of sun, 

There to lay their cold bones, when life's journey is done. 

Ye "Sons of the forest," sleep on in your beds ; 
Ye hear not my footsteps, now over your heads ; 
Ye hear not my voice, as 'tis wafted away, 
O'er the spot where your slumbering ashes decay. 

Oneida's broad stream is yet rolling in pride, 
And in its blue waters, the speckled fish glide ; 
But never again shall ye thither repair, 
To take the rich treasure, now gamboling there. 

I see some blue smoke, at a distance, arise. 
And vanish away in the dark autumn skies — 
But from the low wigwam, that stood in the glen, 
That pale, dusky column ne'er rises again. 

Some voice, from afar, faintly breaks on my ear, 
And methinks, for a moment, your war-song I hear ; 
But no ! your wild voices, that rose on the gale, 
Ne'er again shall be echoed o'er mountain and vale. 

Ye Sons of the Mighty, your spirits have flown, 
To the Great Spirit's country ; where grief ne'er is known 
And there ye are blest, though your names shall bo laid, 
Forever in gloomy Oblivion's shade. 



69 

I sigh when I think that, afar in the west, 
7'he last of your race arc now perishing fast — 
T^liat many have thither been driven away, 
From the home of their infancy banished for aye. 

Then I tremble to think, that kind Heaven is jast ; 
That, though vengeance may sleep, yet awaken it must, 
If no breeze can blow over America's sod, 
But it wafts up an Indian's complaint to his God. 

Ah ! there are dark shades on Columbia's name — 
Shades that tarnish the sheen of her blood-purchased fame 
For oh ! in the " Land of the Free," we must view 
The Indian's Oppressor and African's too ! 



TO THE CRICKET. 



Sing on, little cricket, sing on, 
Though a loneliness saddens thy tone ; 
Thou causest my gayness to flee, 
Yet thy note hath a pleasure for me. 

Sing on, little cricket, sing on, 
For Day, with his splendor is gone ; 
And Night, in solemnity, sheds 
Her gloominess over our heads. 

Sing on, little cricket, sing on, 
For the bird now his carol hath done; 
And, resting him on the green tree, 
lie resigns his commission to thee : 



69 

Then sing, little cricket, sing on. 
Till the darkness of night shall have gone ; 
Sweeter now is thy chirping to me. 
Than the bird's gayest singing could be. 

Sing on, little cricket, sing on. 
For thou tellest of days that are gone ; 
When, in childhood, I wandered by night, 
To list to thy song with delight. 

Then sing, little cricket, sing on ; 
It is meet that thy note should be lone, 
As the farewell of days that are gone- 
Sing on, little cricket, sing on. 



POEMS OF A LATER PERIOD. 



THE SLEEPING PHENOMENON. 



" His name is Thos. Bradly, aged 22 years ; and he has had two som- 
niferous attacks previous to the present one. The first lasted but a few 
weeks ; the second during a period of forty weeks, and the present sleep 
has continued exactly fifty.two weeks.'" Halifax Guardian. 



Wake, Sleeper, arouse thee f how long wilt thou be 
Thus bound in a slumber, so silent and deep ? 

The voices of loved ones are calling to thee. 

And Affection is weeping, — awake from thy sleep ! 

7 



TO 

Wake, sleeper, awake ! thou hast wasted away 

The fairest of seasons allotted us here. 
When the robin sung sweet on the flowery spray, 

Why fell not his note on thy slumbering ear T 

Wake, sleeper, awake f for now Autumn has come. 

With a vesture of gloom for the mountain and dell ; 
Bright Summer is fled from her own happy home — 

Wake, Sleeper, and bid her a lonely farewell ! 

What demon has bound thee, in fetters so fast, 

That Nature herself strives to break them, in vain? 

Has the gentle god. Slumber, turned traitor, at last, 
By closing thy eyes, ne'er to ope them again ? 

Perhaps, while he held thee in balmy repose. 
Thy soul, wearied long with calamity here, 

Fled joyful away, from this scene of thy woes, 
To some shore, far away from Mortality's sphere : 

And there, a; gay spirit, 'tis reveling free ^ 

Where foes never triumph, and friends never mourn 

While friends are here mourning in sadness for thee, 
And thy body lies waiting its tenant's return. 

Return, vagrant sprite. Oh ! return to Ihy home ! 

Revive now this sleeper, thus living in death : 
Come back to thy tenement, wanderer, come ! 

Lest Nature, exhausted, relinquish the breath. 

Oh ! Sleeper, thou type of mortality's doom, 
A Power unseen is still guarding thy head ; 

Till that Power awake thee, thy couch is thy tomb ; 
If that Power should leave thee, the grave is thy bed. 



71 



Then, Sleeper, sleep on ! thou wilt soon wake again, 
Though this slumber should end in the sleep of the grave^ 

Peace — peace to thy spirit ! Oh happy ! if then 
Thou wakest triumphant o'er death's gloomy wave. 



TO COMIS. 



WE ne'er shall eegret the day. 



The hour has come, sweet maid, 

When our passion to each is known ; 

And the cruel reserve, that so long had staid, 
Forever aside is thrown, 

I scarcely could doubt that you loved, 

Though you never had told me so ; 
For those signs I saw, that nearly proved 

As much as words could do. 

But the glow of your eye so bright, 

And the smile that you did not withhold, 

Ne'er gave me the joy that I felt that night, 
When our mutual love was told. 

That night now forever is gone, 

And its bliss we shall ne'er forget ; 
But, my love, when we think of what we have done, 

Shall we ever feel regret ? 



72 

Shall we ever regret the day, 

When an interchange of heart. 
Enabled each to the other to say, 

Forever mine thou art 7 

No, lovely Comis, no. 

That moment shall never be ; 
This plant of affection shall flourish and grow. 

And become a glorious tree ! 

And its fruit we will pluck when time 
Shall have made us in years mature ; 

And oh ! the sweets of that fruit sublime. 
Celestial are and pure. 

The heartless may say, if they please. 
That this world is a world of wo — 

That sorrow and pain, and want of ease. 
Attend us where'er we go : 

But oh ! could they taste the bliss. 

Which often to us is given, 
When the pleasure of love's congenial kiss. 

Makes for us a terrestial Heaven. 

Then, surely, with bosoms glad. 
They would drop their philosophy, 

And own, with us, there are joys to be had, 
In this world of vanity. 

Then come with me, my love ; 

Sweet shall pass our lives away ; 
And ihe myrtle shall bloom our heads above, 

When their clustering locks are gray. 



73 



Together through life we'll go, 
And its joys and sorrows share ; 

We'll cull the sweets, this world may know, 
And smile at the frown of care. 

And we ne'er shall regret the day, 
When an interchange of heart, 

Enabled each to the other to say, 
Forever mine thou art. 



TO THE SAME. 



Nil, sine te, mei 
Possunt honores. — Horace. 



Once Fame could allure me with promise enticing, 
Inspiring with hopes for a glorious name ; 

But the fair star of Love, in my firmament rising, 
Bedimmed the bright glow of the beacon of Fame. 

With a spell of enchantment that beacon once bound me ; 

I did there my fond hopes of futurity see ; 
But that star sheds a far brighter influence round me — 

And all its blest radiance centres in thee ! 

Though Glory were spreading her bright banner o'er me, 
And crowning my head with her evergreen bays. 

With the light of thy love beaming constant before me, 
I would lightly esteem the fair garlands of praise : — 

7* 



( 



74 

I would lay down the laurel and take up the myrtle, 

Thou hast wreathed for my brow in a garland so bright ; 

Fame's trumpet might sound, yet the notes of the turtle 
Would inspire in my bosom far greater delight. 

What though the dim shades of obscurity cover 

My name from the sight of the learned and the great ; 

If thou alone cherish the name of thy lover, 
Let others forget me — still sweet is my fate. 

What though, when the clods of the grave are upon me, 
No stranger may ask where my body was laid ; 

If one tear droppeth there from that eye which hath won me. 
Sweet — sweet is my rest in Oblivion's shade. 



FAREWELL. 



" Farewell ! — a word which must be and hath been, 

A sound which makes us linger — yet, farewell !" — Byron. 



Farewell ! the hour has come, 
When I abroad must roam — 

Where, who can tell ? 
Alas ! I only know 
That I from thee must go, 
For Fate has told us so— 

Comis, farewell ! 



75 

Farewell! I almost feel 

My courage from me steal — 

My heart rebel 
Against the firm decree ; 
But no — it must not be, 
I tear myself from thee ; 

Dearest, farewell ! 

Farewell ! sweet scenes have fled, 
Joys of the past are dead, 

And tolled their knell: 
Tears in the eye that start, 
Alone relieve the smart, 
Within each bursting heart — 

Dearest, farewell ! 

Farewell! the past doth seem 
Some lovely pleasant dream, 

Remembered well; 
And parting now from thee, 
Is waking but to see 
Its sweet reality — 

Dearest, farewell ! 

Farewell ! we oft have met. 
To part with sweet regret — 

Knowing full well, 
That ere Sol's flying feet 
Thrice round the world could fleet, 
We two again should meet- 
Dearest, farewell I 



76 

Farewell ! for now we part J 
Long months my aching heart 

From thee shall dwell ; 
But oh ! fond Memory 
Shall waft me aye to thee — 
I know thou lovest me— 

Comis, farewell ! 



A SWEET DECEPTION. 



As once I sat my love beside, 

Time fled away on wings of bliss ; 

And as he passed, I heard him chide 
My lingering ; then a parting kiss 

I gave the maid, and sighed — ' Ah ! when, 

My Comis, shall we meet again?' 

The while I spoke, my bosom burned, 
And grief and love were in my eye ; 

Yet the dear maiden coldly turned. 
And this to me her strange reply, — 

(Methought in words of feigned disdain,) 

^' Would that we ne'er might meet again ?" 

'Well, scornful maid, thou wishest well! 

And thou canst have thy wish at once ■' 
I quickly said — when gently fell. 

From her soft lips this sweet response — = 
*'Then can you love, /or aye remain, 
So we may never meet again!" 



77 



ACROSTIC. 



My thoughts shall backvj^ard stray to thee, 

As messengers of memory, 

Revisiting, on pinions bright, 

Youth's happiest hours — gone like a meteor light. 

Joy be with thee, thou gentle one, 
And sometimes think of me when gone ; 
No brighter gift I ask of thee — 
Enough the tender boon of memory. 



A LAMENT FOR AUTUMN. 



Now, fading Nature, o'er thy charms so meek, 
Like pale Consumption on fair Beauty's cheek, 

Stern Autumn holds his sway : 
The cruel ravisher thy lovely form 
Has rudely stripped of every brighter charm, 

That made thy youth so gay. 

Thy Spring has fled, with all her odorous flowers, 
And Sadness sits in thy sweet fairy-bowers, 

Where pleasure fondly dwelt : 
Thou now hast laid aside thy Summer-dress 
For Autumn's shroud ; and o'er thy loneliness, 

The eyes of Sorrow melt. 



78 

Yet thou art lovely — lovely as the maid, 

Whose sylph-like form the hand of Death has laid 

Upon her lowly bier : 
Yes, thou art passing beautiful, and I 
Do love thy faded beauties, though my eye 

Must drop a mournful tear. 

I 've ever paid my fond devoirs to thee, 
As to a sentient spirit ; and to see 

Thy features languish so — 
It fills my youthful breast with rising grief ; 
And Joy's fond warblings ne'er can bring relief, 

To check my pensive wo. 

I '11 hasten to some forest grot, and there, 
Where streamlets spread soft music on the air, 

In murmurs low and faint, 
1 '11 sit me down ; and while the sighing gale 
Whispers above my head its mournful tale, 

I '11 sing my sad complaint. 

I '11 mourn drear Autumn's desolating power, 
And all his train of griefs, that dimly lower 

Around in doleful gloom ; 
And while sad willows gently round me wave, 
Like some fond lover o'er his fair one's grave, 

I '11 sigh o'er Nature's doom. 

Autumn, thy sadness, which I love so well, 
Thy sighing groves, thy yellow leaves— all tell 

Of Time's destructive power ; — 
Tell how our passing days are flitting by, 
Like fairy -lights upon the northern sky, 

In midnight's silent hour. 



79 

Oh! may the moments of each youthful year^ 
Be spent for him alone, who gave us here 

Our fleeting, transient breath : 
So when the Autumn of our day shall come, 
Our souls may be prepared for that sweet home, 

Beyond the wave of Death. 



TO COMIS. 



" 'Twas a moment for earth too supremely divine, 

And while life lasts, its sweetness shall cling round me Jtill." 

J. G. Percival. 



Full many a place has hallowed been 

To us, since first we met, 
By sacred mem'ries ling'ring there. 

Of joys we ne'er forget. 
Thus mem'ry haunts that lovely spot, 

And will, till life shall flee. 
Where once we spent a happy hour, 

Beneath that Balsam Tree. 

The sun had set behind the hill, 

The twinkling stars above 
Shone down on us, that happy eve, 

Like vestal fires of love. 
Soft summer breezes lightly sigh'd 

Its branches through, while we 
Our blissful passion told again, 

Beneath that Balsam Tree. 



80 



The time's gone by — as we have said 

Of each hour gone before, — 
And memory the happy scene 

Will fondly ponder o'er : 
And when I 'm far from that loved spot, 

And far away from thee, 
I '11 ssigh for that blest hour again, 

Beneath that Balsam Tree ! 

The time's gone by ; thus we shall say^ 

Soon of the present hour ; 
And let it go — we ask it not 

To make its journey slower ; 
For hope is pointing to a time, 

Which Hope alone can see — 
A happier time than that we spent 

Beneath that Balsam Tree. 



THINKING OF THEE. 



"Nature all 
Wears to the lover's eye, a look of love." — Tuomson. 



Bright Phoebus had gone, his sweet Clytie to meet, 

In her bower far off in the ocean ; 
And evening came forth from her noon-day retreat, 

Where she hid from diurnal commotion. 
She placidly smiled on the languishing earth, 

Now clothed in her rich summer vest ; 
And the zephyr, on odorous pinion, led forth 

From its far distant home in the west. 



81 

The twilight was flitting along the blue sky, 

Like the tint of some fair-fading flower, 
And the evening star sweetly looked down from on high, 

As Love from a ruby. decked bower. 
The scene was most fair, to my eye and my heart, 

As Nature is ever to me ; 
But far more of sweetness it then did impart, 

Because I was thinking of thee. 

To the moon Philomela was singing her song, 

As she sat on (he low-bending willow ; 
And the vesper-wind sighed, as it flitted along, 

Like a sound from the far ocean-billow. 
The grove murmured forth its soft note on the gale, 

As the breeze played its branches among, 
And sweetly it chimed with the sound from the vale, 

Where the cricket his roundelay sung. 

The murmuring stream, on its low summer lute, 

A ridotto for evening was playing, 
Sweeter far than the notes of the shepherd's soft flute, 

O'er plains of the east nightly straying. 
Sweet sounds ! my rapt spirit fain lingered to hear, 

That evening, their rich melody ; 
But softer and sweeter they fell on my ear, 

Because I was thinking of thee. 

Mild Nature has ever a charm for my eye, 

Wherever her beauty is glowing, 
Whether stars glitter bright from their station on high, 

Or brooks from the mountain are flowing. 
8 



82 

But since thou hast met me, wherever I rove, 
Some reflection from thee seems to be ; 

And dearer by far are the scenes that I love— 
My Comis, I 'ra thinking of thee ! 



ODE TO JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



Hail, fearless one, whose dauntless voice hath been 
The loud alarm-note to a slumbering land ; 
Whose prophet-tones fair Freedom's scattered band 

Have heard, and rallied round her flag serens! 

No hardling thou, effeminately fed 
Upon the lap of Pleasure ; — Liberty, 
With deep maternal fondness, nourished thee^ 

And kept her nightly vigils round thy head. 

While lowly pillowed on its cradle-bed : 

And whife she cherished thee with fond delight 
And hope, into thy infant bosom she 
Inspired her own blest soul, ordaining thee 

To be her own Magician, robed in might. 

So when maturity had clothed thy form, 

Thy powerful hand caught up her magic lyre, 
And swept its strings with such ecstatic fire, 

That patriot-bands, urged by the mighty charm. 

Rose up with hearts for Freedom's contest warm. 



83 

The tyrant, as he held the cruel rod 

Above his victim, heard thy harp so bold, 
And stood aghast with terror ; for it told 
His conscience of his trade in tears and blood. 
And soon the slave, in chains of infamy, 

Will hear ; and, starting from his long- — ^long sleep 
Of slavery, lethargical and deep. 
He'll raise his sable arm in majesty. 
And tell a world — My Maker made me free! 

The patriot long had shed his mournful tear, 

In sad despair for his loved country's doom ; 

Hope's light had nearly fled, and awful gloom 
Alone seemed hovering round in darkness drear. 
But when he heard thy soul-reviving strain. 

Upon his brow unwonted pleasure beamed ; 

He saw, by faith, his guilty land redeemed 
From Slavery's blighting and unholy stain, 
As Hope held forth her cheering lamp again. 

Enrolled in records of thy country's fame, 

Embalmed in tears which Gratitude must give — 
Bold Whittier, thy memory shall livfe. 

Though now reproach be heaped upon thy name, 

Yet, when the poisoned tongue of Calumny 
Is still, and thou art in thy peaceful grave, 
Where weeping willows silent o'er thee wave — 

Then a repentant land will mourn for thee, 

As the firm guardian of her liberty. 



84 



STORM AT NATCHEZ-MAY, 1840. 



When the fierce demon of the storm breaks forth, 

(Long bound by Mercy, in his gloomy den,) 
To scatter ruin o'er the smiling earth, 

In vengeance on the guilty sons of men — 
'Tis terrible ; and crowded cities quail 

Before the fury of his angry breath ; 
Art's proudest mansions totter, and the wail 

Of men goes direful from the scene of death ! 

But ah ! what marvel that he bursts his chain^ 

In stern obedience to his Sire's command, 
And leads in terror all his horrid train — 

"VVo, death, destruction — o'er your guilty land ? 
The groaning of your captives breaks his sleep, 

The sounding of the lash arouses him ! 
He struggles fiercely in his "donjon keep," 

Justice unbinds — forth stalks the monster grim ! 

What marvel if that storm of fire should come, 

Which brought Gomorrah's sons a sulphurous grave, 
And rage till it had whelmed each lofty dome, 

Beneath another Dead Sea's sluggish wave? 
Why ! blacker crimes than Sodom ever knew, 

Distain your soil, on which Oppression treads. 
And loudly call to Heaven for vengeance due, 

Injustice strict on the oppressor's heads! 



85 

Had no more righteous men with you been found, 

Than Sodom held, in her dread overthrow, 
God had not spared your slave-poHuted ground ; 

Your plains had reeked with brimstone, long ago ! 
The prayers of saints and groans of slaves arise ; 

Both reach the Great Eternal's ear ; but when 
Kind Mercy intercedes, her weeping eyes 

Prevail with justice for the "righteous ten." 

Then rouse, ye saints, your energies of prayer ! 

If Slavery holds not now his blighting sway 
Within your languid souls — if, lingering there. 

One spark of love for freedom burnetii — pray ! 
Pray, sons of Liberty, who love the slave, 

Who love your God, or land that gave you birth- 
Pray ! lest her crimes shall dig her fiery grave, 

And blot her from the nations of the earth ! 



WEEP FOR THE SLAVE. 



Ye sons of Folly, who complain 

Of sorrow and unnumbered woes, 
Although incurred by use profane 

Of gifts which God bestows, — 
Forget awhile your selfish care ; 

Think of the captive's iron chain; 
And then, if ye have tears to spare, 
Weep for his pain. 
8^ 



86 



Frail man, forget your empty grief 

For hopes that have forever gone ; 
They're stolen from you, but the thief 

Is e'en yourself alone ; — 
Oh ! think of one whose weary eye 

Ne'er saw a hope but in his grave ; 
And then, if pity prompts a sigh, 
Weep for the slave. 

Think of his toil and pain by day, 

His bitter tears at midnight shed ; 
Think of the dreams of wo that play 

Around his slumbering head : 
Think of his heart, with anguish torn ; 

Think of his cold, dishonored grave — 
And then, if Sorrow bids you mourn, 
Weep for the slave. 

His Maker gave to him his life, 

Affection's gentle bliss to know ; 
He loves his child, he loves his wife, 

Who shares his cup of wo ; — 
Behold him forced from these to part, 

To meet no more, this side the grave ; 
And then, if love e'er reached your iieart, 
Weep for the slave. 

Behold him naked and distressed, 

A fugitive from slavery — 
By hunger and by cold oppressed, 
In search of liberty : 



87 

By men and dogs and bloody steel, 
Behold him hunted to his grave ; 
And then, if you've a heart to feel, 
Weep for the slave. 

Oh Thou, whose eyelid never sleeps, 

Who guardest all thy creatures here, 
Whose pity moves, when Sorrow weeps — 

Behold the captive's tear ! 
To Thee we look, thou Sovereign Lord, 

Thy arm is mighty, it can save ; 
Arise, and speak the heavenly word, 
And free the slave ! 



TO HIRAM WILSON. 



Thou generous-hearted man ! what wreath of praise. 
What sacred chaplet shall we twine for thee? 
The warrior's laurel would not grace thy brow ; 
'Tis stained with blood — sure 'tis not meet for thee ! 
The Muse's garland may seem bright and fair, 
Ye(, 'tis impure, unchaste, compared with thine. 
The brightest wreath an angel can bestow, 
Shall crown thee for thy generous love to man ! 

He who forsakes his fondest earthly joy — 
The sacred ties of kindred and of home — 
And bears the news of mercy o'er the main, 
Wears out his life beneath a sultry sky. 



88 

And leaves his bones upon a heathen soil — 

He hath performed a glorious work of love ; 

And truly he shall have his blest reward. 

And yet, methinks thy self-denying task 

Has greater been than his ; for he goes forth. 

Supplied from the rich coffers of the church : 

Christians extol him as one loved of God, 

And even worldlings call him great and good. 

But thou hast gone, trusting alone in God 

And the ^qw friends of wronged humanity ; 

The world, for thy benevolence, has given 

Its slander, its reproach, its vilest scorn ; 

And (shameful truth !) e'en Christians give to thee 

The name. Fanatic^ for thy holy zeal ! 

One can withstand an enemy's disdain. 

Can bear his weapons of reproach and scorn : 

But to be wounded thus by ingrate friends, 

Oh, 'tis the darkest shade of cruelty ! 

Yet, thou hast borne it ; and thy kind return 

Has been, for curses, blessings; love for hate, 

And meek forgiveness for ingratitude. 

God speed thee, noble one ! thy work of love 
Will soon be done, and thou shalt enter on 
Thy promise rest : and when thy head is laid 
Upon the pillow of life's peaceful sleep. 
The African shall weep above thy tomb ; 
And his warm tear of gratitude shall make 
Thy grave a sacred spot. Philanthropy 
Will mourn the loss of her best champion, 
And Liberty will weep when thou art gone. 



89 



TO THE MOON IN ECLIPSE. 



Pale Moon, that walkest on thy lonely way, 

And keep'st thy vigils, while earth gently sleeps, 

Why is that cloud of sadness o'er thee ? say. 
Why hast thou hid thy face as one that weeps ? 

That face, as if in joy, is wont to glow ; 

Thy radiant smile can cheer night's sullen gloom :— 
But now dark grief hangs over thee, as though. 

Pale maiden, thou wert shrouded for the tomb. 

Sure, one like thee, so innocent and fair. 
No pain and sorrow of her own can know : 

Thy heart can never feel the touch of care ; — 
Then art thou weeping for another's wo ? 

While watching nightly o'er the slumbering earth, 
Have sights of anguish grieved thy gentle breast? 

While pleasure slept — while hushed the voice of mirth- 
Hast heard the sighs of those by grief oppressed ? 

Thou seem'st to gaze, while roaming through the sky, 

Upon our guilty land, America — 
Hast here beheld those sights of misery, 

Which night fain covers from the gaze of day ? 

Hast thou beheld the slave, unsoothed by sleep, 
Tossing in anguish on his bed of pain ? 

Hast seen the mother for her offspring weep — 

Torn from her arms and bound in Slavery's chain ? 



9^ 

flast seen the lonely captive, as he flies 

From the dark soil Oppression loves to tread— *= 

Naked and hungry, while the night-wind sighs 
Coldly above the soS he makes his bed ? 

Hast seen the Indian, driven from his home, 
An exile from the scenes his childhood blest-— 

Now slumbering where the prairie-breezes roam, 
Among the dreary regions of the west ? 

Hast thou beheld the injured Seminole 

Upon some dark morass ; where, with their rack, 
Fear and distress are torturing his soul. 

While loud the blood-hound bays upon his track ? 

If so, what marvel that thou hid'st thy face ? 

What marvel that thy tears flow fast and free ? 
Weep — if with one so pure, grief finds a place — 

Weep, gentle Cynthia, I will weep with thee ! 



LINES TO A SMALL CASCADE. 

[This cascade is situated in the vicinity of Stockbridge Academy. It 
is usuaily dry in the summer, but in the fall and spring a considerable 
stream of water passes over the rocks.] 



Thou wild cascade, whose joyful murmurs spread 
Such lovely music on the vernal air, 
List while I sing to thee my humble song^ 
Thou hast, indeed, a most melodious tongue. 



91 



If we may judge by that enchanting voice, 
And thus 'twould seem thou also hast an ear r 
Then list ; and I will sing of thee what thou 
(If thou, too, lovest praise) wilt fondly hear.. 

Fortune, forsooth, has dealt with thee most basely" ; 
She nerer gave thee bards to sing thy beauties. 
(Except, perhaps, such pseudo-hards as I am,) 
Nor has she ever given thee a name^ 
Or told, beyond this sweet and lowly vale^ 
That thou in truth dost even have existence. 
But yet thou art a Dwarf Niagara ; 
And dwarfs, in point of fame, are great as giants!' 
Then hast not Fortune been most treacherous, 
That she has never given thee a fame t 

When Spring returns, in lovely majesty, 
And decks with joy the smiling scene around thee, 
Thou greelest her with thy most cheering song. 
Thou seemest happy, at her glad return, 
And fillest all the woods with melody. 
When summer hangs her glorious sky above thee, 
And spreads her balmy breath on every bree2:e, 
Thy voice which rang so loudly, then is mute :; 
Thou flingest over thee thy fairest robe, 
To pass her pleasing reign in gentle silence, 
Wreathing thy brow with honey-suckles fair, 
While down thy sides the sweetest flowers bloom. 
The forest trees, with branches thickly twined, 
Shut, from thy silent depth, the light of heaven ^ 
And there the wild fox makes his rocky home ;- 
While over head, among the leafy boughs, 
The eummer birds their ditties sweetly sing. 



92 

Again, when Autumn spreads his mournful gloom, 
Thou breakest forth into a sadder strain. 
Thy murm'ring waters sing the funeral song 
For Summer's happy reign ; and while the wind^ 
In hollow whispering, sighs among the trees, 
That wailing voice sends forth a wild farewell ! 
But when chill Winter comes, and Nature sleeps.. 
As if in death's oblivious slumber laid, 
Thy warbling melody is ceased again : 
And while the earth in sadness dreary sits, 
Thou weepest faintly, o'er her loneliness ; 
And on ihy snowy rocks, thy falling tears 
Congeal, as mournful tokens of thy sorrow. 
And thus, while all the seasons pass their round. 
Thou still remainest in thy forest home, 
Bearing to each a greeting as they pass — 
Rejoicing gay, or mourning o'er the scene. 

Thou murmuring waterfall, there linger round 
Thy rocky form, some pleasing memories : 
And while I ramble here, my musing thought 
Is backward fondly turned, to those glad hours. 
Which recollection ever holds so dear. 
It may be deemed my folly, thus to love 
Those boyish moments I have wasted round thee. 
But thus it is, and thus it e'er must be. 

I well remember, that when but a boy, 
In all the gayety of happy childhood, 
It was my fondest joy to wander here, 
And stray among thy sweet, romantic scenes, 
I knew not what, indeed, it was that charmed mc ; 
Whether it was thy wildly-dashing water, 



93 

Or thy menacing rocks, o'erhanging high, 

Or those sweet honey-suckles, blooming fair 

Upon thy brow, and down thy rugged cliffs ; — 

I knew not what it was — I only knew 

My childish heart was glad — and 'twas enough. 

And I would linger 'neath thy jutting brow, 

Musing on some old legend told of thee — 

Of beasts of prey, that made their dark abode 

Within this wild and solitary dell — 

Until my boyish fears became alarmed, 

And fancy heard some prowling footstep near, 

Of wolf awaiting me with anxious jaws ; 

And, upwards casting suddenly my eye, 

That hanging rock above seemed tottering, 

To fall anon upon my head and crush me : 

And then I'd hasten out with trembling step. 

And, by a rugged path circuitous, 

Would reach thy summit ; there awhile to stand, 

And gaze adown thy depth with cautious glance. 

My recollection fondly hurries on. 
From that blest season, to one fairer still — 
That gay and joyous time, when Hope and Love 
Walk hand in hand with Youth, through fairy paths 
All strew'd with flowers, where everypassing sound 
Is melody, with scarce a note of sorrow. 
And while I view, in retrospection sweet, 
The lovely dawning of Youth's vernal morn, 
My mem'ry gladly lingers o'er that hour, 
When, with my Comis, on thy brow I stood, 
And gaily feigned that I would throw her thence ; 
When if, by some sad chance, her foot had slipped, 
And she had found a grave among thy rocks, 
9 



94 

I should have longed to dash myself there too, 

That I might yweetly sleep with her forever. 

£ome years have flitted on their rapid way, 

And yet I dearly love that maiden still : 

(/ tell thee, for I know thoult keep my secret t) 

And when I cease to love her gentle name, 

It will be time my recreant heart were lying 

Cold 'neath some desert sod, where worms may gnaw it: 

Full many a school- boy ramble have I had 
To this fond spot, while at yon sacred dome. 
That in the distance rears its cupola, 
I yet pursued my academic toils. 
My friend {in truths a friend) and I once strayed 
Away from our laborious study-room, 
And left awhile our Virgil's classic page, 
To recreate our minds with Nature's scenes. 
And when we reached this rugged precipice, 
With ardent toil, a log of monstrous size, 
We rolled from distance far, close to the brink : 
And when at length we gaily let it fall. 
Bounding from rock to rock, through air on high, 
In many a bold, majestic curve, at last 
It reached the bushy dingle far below. 
It was indeed a passing glorious sight, 
To see that huge and sluggish log of wood, 
Bounding adown the rocks into that dell, 
With airy sweep, so like a thing of life. 
When that sublime and mighty forest tree 
Was standing, like some giant of the mountain, 
Waving in air so high, its noble limbs, 
'Mong which the eagle might have made his home, 
Who would have thought, that on some future day. 



95 

*T would make such lovely sport for merry school-boySo 

Henry, when shall we lose the memory 

Of that delighful hour? Not soon, I ween : 

Nor yet of that, when with those bright-eyed girls 

We rambled here, to view these beauteous scenes ; 

And learned, that beauty on a fair one's brow 

Sits sweeter far, when Nature spreads around 

Her sterner and yet lovely lineaments 

Of grace and beauty, found throughout her works. 

Oh ! all these hours are dear to memory : 
And now, when they have gone— forever gone. 
Although they v/ere but boyish hours — at best. 
Short respites from the daily cares of life, 
I almost sigh that they return no more. 
But let them go ! — and thou, my wild cascade, 
Farewell ! my artless song must cease, and I 
Must leave this fancy-haunted spoto 
My ^eet perhaps will wander here no more, 
And I shall spend my life afar from thee. 
And only visit thee in gentle dreams, 
Or in the airy flight of Memory. 
Then fare thee well ! peace be with thy sweet rocks, 
Thy murmuring waters, and thy flow'rets fair. 
Still may the autumn dirge be sung by thee ; 
Still may the spring be welcomed with thy lay : 
Sweet may the honey-suckles bloom around thee, 
When Summer's balmy breath is gently blowing : 
And if my joyous feet may tread no more 
Upon these lovely rocks — then fare thee well ? 
A long adieu to thee, thou wild cascade ! 



m 



THE TWO SISTERS. 



Two flowers had bloomed, on a single stem> 
Each fair to the eye as a bridal gem ; 

And they stood in a lovely valley. 
Where the dews of even were sweetly shed, 
And the zephyr's breath its fragrance spread, 

In many a gentle sally. 

And fairer they grew each vernal day. 
And hope was promising that decay 

Should visit the blossoms never ; 
Till the breath of autumn should rudely blow, 
And the wintery blasts should lay them low, 

To sleep in the dust forever. 

But the Angel of Death roamed through the vale, 
And saw the flowers so sweet and frail, 

In their lovely beauty growing : 
And one he plucked from its tender stalk, 
Where it stood beside the flowery walk, 

With the roses brightly glowing. 

He bore it away from its vernal bed. 
In the sky above its perfume to shed, 

And bloom in some heavenly bower ; 
And he left its mourning sister here : 
And the morning dew-drop seemed the tear 

Of the pale and weeping flower. 



97 



The breath of the zephyr it still perfumed. 
And still in its virgin beauty bloomed, 

On the stalk so rudely riven : 
But sad was its look, as if waiting the day, 
When the angel would bear its form away, 

To bloom with its sister in heaven. 



THE SPIRIT AND THE BRIDE SAY, COME.'' 



Come ] if thy heart in vain 

Has sought a resting here ; 
If earth's a home of pain, 

Where nought to thee is dear — 

Come ! there's a rest 
Prepared for thee, 
Where thou mayst be 
Forever blest. 

Come ! if the friends are gone, 

That once were round thee gay 
And thou art left alone. 
In weariness to stray. 

Come ! there's a friend 
For thee above, 
Whose lasting love 
Shall never end. 
7* 



98 

Come ! if earth's joy has fled, 

And left thee comfortless ; 
If grief for thee has shed 
Its cup of bitterness — • 
Come ! there's a joy 
For thee in heaven, 
Where bliss is given 
Without alloy. 

Come ! if thy way has been 
In guilt's disgraceful road, 
And, weary now of sin, 

Thou pinest 'neath the load- 
Come, in thy shame ! 
Forgiveness free 
Is offered thee, 
In Jesus' name. 



THE CONQUEROR'S WREATH. 



On Death's black field a flower-plant grew, 
Which the demon had planted, where it stood ; 

And broad were its leaves, and dark its hue, 

For the place where it stood was enriched with blood. 

On the self-some spot had a lover died, 

By the war-god laid in his final rest ; 
And his faithful bride had, weeping, sighed 

Her life away on his bleeding breast. 



99 

It flourished well, for the clew that fell, 

On the fatal plain where it sprung and grew, 

Was the sweat of the conquered, who fought so well, 
And the tear of the widow and orphan too. 

The sighs of the famishing in despair, 

Waved it to and fro, like a zephyr's breath ; 

And its odor, sent forth on the reeking air. 
Like the Upas-breath, was the scent of death. 

And when its branches were spread afar, 
And blossoms were now upon every bough, 

'Twas plucked by the hand of the demon War, 
And twined in a wreath for the Conqueror's brow 



SONNET I. 

Oh ! how I love these old romantic woods, 

Where wild winds make their sport ! A gentle feeling. 

Like some soft dream, sweet through my bosom stealing. 
Come o'er me as I roam these solitudes. 
Here sacred quiet finds a holy spot. 

Where, musing on the future, she may sea 

Calm visions of a bright eternity, 
Earth's turbulence and sorrow all forgot. 
A spirit's tone seems wafted to my ear, 

On each soft gale that gently sighs along : 
Some unseen melody is wandering near, 

Enrapt'ring me as with a seraph's song. 
A sound comes forth, from each high-waving limb, 
That tells me God is here, and bids me worship him. 

tore. 



100 



SONNET II. 



*Tis Sabbath evening, and the radiant sun 
Is slowly sinking in the lovely west. 
All nature now has sought a holy rest. 

As musing o'er the sacred moments gone. 

My spirit now, from worldly passions free, 
Would fain partake of such a heavenly calm : 
And while I sigh and mourn for what I am, 

I'd pray to God for what I long to be. 

Then flee, ye vain and worldly thoughts, away ! 
Like spectres haunt ye me, this solemn hour ? 

Away ! and let me close this sacred day, 
In adoration of my Maker's power : 

Flee ! while yon twilight glows so sweetly there, 

I fain would lift my heart to God in prayer. 



SONNET III. 



Why, Poverty, thou withered hag, ah ! why 
Hast thou thus laid thy bony hand upon me? 
What couldst have seen in me, that thou hast won me, 

To glare upon me with thy fiendish eye ? 

Since first fair childhood spread its flowers before me, 
Thy blighting touch has chilled my fondest hopes : 
And still my youthful arm, unequal, copes 

With that same fiend that sheds her influence o'er me^ 



101 

Beldame, begone ! thou aimest at my spirit, 
To blast the buddings of my youthful soul : 

But know thou, sorceress, that I inherit 

Something within that brooks not thy control : 

Then why wouldst lash me with thy scorpion, want ! 

I tell thee once again, grim hag, avaunt ! 



SONNET IV. 



All nature sleeps ; 'lis midnight's solemn hour ; 

And Silence deep and still Repose again 

Hold sceptre o'er the busy haunts of men. 
I only waking, feel the gentle power, 
AVhich Night, in solitary loveliness, 

Holds o'er my spirit, with a fond delight. 

'Twas at this silent hour that pensive White, 
His youthful bosom filled with loneliness. 
Was wont to woo his gentle muse's sway. 

And tune his mournful harp to notes of sadness. 
Dim Night, thou wast his joy — his sweeter day ; 

Thy stillness bore to him a tone of gladness : 
To him benignly thou didst ever bring 
Fancy's sweet treasure, 'neath thy sable wing. 



102 



SONNET V. 

On reading the following lines of Henry K. White. 

" Fifty years hence, and who will think of Henry ? 
Oh ! none ; another busy brood of beings 
Will shoot up in tlie interim, and none 
Will hold him in remembrance." 



Young bard, that ilKpresaging muse of thine 
That saw Oblivion raise its dreary pall 
To shroud thy name, was unprophetical. 

Too long that muse had knelt at Sorrow's shrine ; 

Her shadow darkly o'er thy life was cast, 

And e'en the future, taking thence its hue 
A gloomy void presented to thy view. 

And now those " fifty years" are nearly past ; 

But art thou, youthful bard, forgotten ? No ! 

The breathings of thy harp are echoing stilL 

Who has not heard its murmurs as they flow, 
Sweet as the warbling of the mountain rill ? 

Thine is the poet's fame, that never dies — 

The Christian's fame that lives beyond the skies. 



lo: 



SONNET VI. 



Written on hearing that a certain church had refused to permit an 
anti-siavery agent to lecture in their meeting-house. 



Religion, now put on thy weeds of mourning, 
And in hot tears thy radiant eye-lids steep ! 
Saints, turn your mournful eyes away and weep, 

While blushes on your cheeks with shame are burning? 

Would that your sighs could drown th' unholy strain, 
Which from our foes, in hellish joy will rise : 
Would that the tears, fast-falling from your eyes, 

Could wash from Zion's fame the cursed stain ! 

But ah ! 'tis done — the horrid deed is done ! 
The church, approving, smiles on slavery f 

The sad recording-angel, with a groan, 

Notes down the dreadful crime ; — and can there be 

An expiation which God will receive? 

My Father, God, the awful sin forgive. 



THE MAIDEN FROM AFAR. 

[Translated from the German of Schiller.] 

In a low vale where shepherds dwelt, 
There came, with each returning year, 

When first the lark began his song, 
A maiden wonderful and fair. 



104 

She was not born within the vale ; 

The shepherds knew not whence she came 
And when she went^ no trace was left, 

Except the memory of her name. 

Her presence filled each heart with bliss; 

Yet so divine her graceful air, 
They loved her not as one of earth, 

But as a goddess, mild and fair. 

She brought with her from other fields. 
The sweetest fruits and fairest flowcrsj 

That grew beneath another sun, 
In a more genial clime than ours. 

She gave to every one a gift, 

Of fruits or flowers that deck the glen : 
Gay Youth, and Age upon his staff, 

Went loaded to their home again. 

Welcome to her was every guest ; 

But when she saw a loving pair, 
To them she gave her brightest gifts — 

To them her flowers most sweet and fair. 



TO D. H. F. 



And is it true thou cravest not 

The^ monument which Glory rears, 

Content thy name should be forgot, 
Hid in the shade of future years? 



105 

Has Fame's sweet voice no rapturous tone ? 

The laurel wreath no beauty fair ? 
Hast thou surveyed Oblivion, 

And couldst thou slumber sweetly there ? 

But I'll not chide— tho' thou mayst be 

Buried in a forgotten grave, 
Yet, thou art happier now than he 

Tossed on Ambition's fiery wave. 

His anxious fears have never been 
Like spectres in thy dreamy rest ; 

His raging passion=storm within 

Has ne'er disturbed thy peaceful breast. 

Thou askest not that Ihey who live 
Beyond the dark and billowy sea, 

When thou art gone; to thee should give 
The guerdon of their memory. 

When thou art lying, cold and low, 
Beneath the flow'rets of the glen, 

And Friendship's tear has ceased to (low, 
Thou wouldst not be remembered then. 

Thou wishest nojie to speak thy name. 
When loved ones hear that sound no more 

Vain were the heartless voice of Fame, 
If Friendship's parting sigh were o'er. 

Well, Henry, 'tis a generous thought ; 

And Friendship's tear shall warmer be 
For thy fond wish, though Fame should not 

Rear monuments of praise to thee. 
10 



106 

For me, though I have longed to wear 
Upon my brow, the wreath of Fame, — 

Thoufrh I have longed his voice to hear 
Sounding aloud my humble name — 

Yet, when with dust my ashes blend, 

When gone our friendship's happy days,- 

Sweeter one sigh of thine, ray friend, 
Than e'en the sweetest voice of praise. 



SONG. 



Come o'er the lea, my love, with me. 

The breeze is floating balmily ; 

For Spring again comes o'er the main, 

And flow'rets deck the dewy plain. 

Then com.e with me ; we'll pluck the flowers. 

And breathe again the vernal air ; 
And we'll forget our weary hours — 

Forget we are a friendless pair. 

Come o'er the lea, my love, with me. 
The cuckoo calls from out the tree. 
The turtle dove beside his love. 
Sings sweetly in the echoing grove. 
Then come with me ; their song shall hush 

Within our hearts each throb of pain : 
The happy robin and the thrush 

Shall teach us happiness again. 



107 

My Comis, come ! Oh might we roam, 
And find for us a woodland home ; 
In some sweet dell, we two would dwell, 
And bid the heartless world farewell. 
There cold Disdain would ne'er intrude, 

And Scorn and Envy be forgot ; 
And blighting Care would be subdued, 

For Love would bless our svlvan cot. 



ERRATA 



Page 19, line 24th, for vnth read while. 
" 42, line 20th, for spirits, road spirit. 
" 79, line 4th for day read days. 
" 88, line 24th, for promise read promised. 



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